Pillars of Sand
by AkaiTsume
Summary: Rickyl Dystopian AU. Daryl has been sentenced to a life of indentured servitude for crimes he didn't even commit. When he stands on that auction block, he assumes that when he steps down, he'll either be dead or a Walker. Either would be better than being a slave. Of course, Daryl doesn't get to make choices anymore…or so he thinks until he meets the stoic Lord Grimes.
1. Vertigo

Daryl's fingers clenched and released slowly, his heart pounding in impotent fury. The dark gray shackles around his wrists bit into the skin, but he couldn't help slowly twisting his bound arms. Other prisoners shuffled quietly behind him, and a balding man to his right stared despondently at the far wall. Light pooled into their holding pen from the stage before them, where some other poor soul was being sold off. The pen reeked of sweat, dirt, and misery.

A guard walked leisurely past their cage, paused, and grinned darkly. He reached out with his nightstick and banged it between the bars near a shrunken, hollow woman who immediately cowered away from him. The guard laughed.

"You assholes should be smiling," he boasted. "You're the lucky ones. You get bought, you get to live."

None of the prisoners replied. Daryl's jaw clenched. Lucky, he called it. Lucky to be sold off as property to some rich asshole who had the legal right to do whatever he wanted to them, up to and including murdering them. _Lucky_.

The guard's smile faded when none of the prisoners responded, and a foul look settled upon his bloated face. He spat at the woman.

"It's better than you shits deserve," he hissed viciously. "Fucking parasites, dragging society down. _Criminals_. You should all be shot, and good riddance to you."

_I'll take that over fucking __**slavery**__,_ Daryl mused darkly. The guard withdrew his night stick and stuck it back into his belt, stalking away. Daryl narrowed his eyes. _Too bad the fucker didn't stick that thing over here by me. I would've grabbed it in a heartbeat._

But that was part of the problem. Out of the twenty or so people in the pen, only Daryl was still angry, still fumed over the bullshit laws that had landed him in this pen in the first place. The others had given up, one by one, resigning themselves to their fates without even a whimper. They all knew what horrible lives awaited them, and they'd unanimously decided to check out early. Daryl's fists clenched once more, and this time, he let them stay that way. He wouldn't check out. He wouldn't give in. If they wanted him to be a good little pet, they'd have to Pacify him first.

He wasn't even supposed to _be_ here. Merle was the one who'd robbed those stores, and Merle was the one who'd beaten that black man half to death. When the police came looking and couldn't find his brother, they decided to snatch up Daryl instead, invoking the "familial atonement" law that their country loved so fucking much. Any and all immediate family members could be punished for a crime committed by their relatives, even if they'd had nothing to do with it. Politicians claimed that it acted as a deterrent. After all, who would commit a crime, knowing that their family would pay for it, too?

Daryl snorted. As if Daryl's well-being had ever factored into any of Merle's decisions. Their father was long dead, may he rot in hell, and their mother had been committed to a mental facility over a decade ago. The only person left to punish in Merle's stead was Daryl, and since he'd refused to rat out his brother during questioning—even if he'd known where the asshole was, there was no way he'd ever turn his back on family like that, and they'd probably both have ended up in irons anyway—here he was, ready to be sold to the highest bidder.

Assuming anyone bid on him at all. If they didn't, the judge presiding over the auction would change his sentence from "life indenture" to death on the grounds that Daryl was clearly of no use to society.

Daryl hoped nobody bid on him.

"I WON'T! I WON'T! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"

A ruckus spontaneously broke out on stage, snapping Daryl out of his thoughts. The man on the auction block had started screaming, swinging his bound wrists around. The guard from before rushed towards the stage, followed closely by several cronies. The prisoner kept screaming, his eyes bulging and face turning red. He swung clumsily at the auctioneer, who backed away with a disgusted scowl on his face. The auctioneer waved a hand at the judge, who was seated behind a dais at the back of the stage. The judge, expression blank, nodded regally and pulled out a slender, black remote. As one, Daryl and the other caged prisoners tensed. The judge calmly pointed the remote at the flailing prisoner and pressed a series of numbers.

The prisoner's reaction was immediate. He dropped to the ground and screamed, writhing and contorting in pain. Veins stood out on his throat and face. The guards backed away, forming an impassive ring around the man and blocking him partially from view. After a few seconds, the screams cut off. Daryl's knuckles turned white with tension as he stared as the stage. The guards finally relaxed, stepping away from the fallen prisoner and moving back to their posts. Nobody moved to help the man on the floor.

Daryl didn't blame them. The man stared up at the rusted rafters of the courthouse, irises bleached gray. Silently, mechanically, the prisoner sat up, paused, and clumsily gained his feet. At a mumbled word from the auctioneer, he stepped back up onto the platform and stared sightlessly into the crowd.

He'd been Pacified.

The other prisoners behind Daryl shrank away from the front of the pen, huddling together in fear. Daryl stood his ground, jaw tight and shoulders squared. He didn't plan on kowtowing to whichever fucktard bought him, and like hell was he going to look away from his fate. He would own this for however long they left him with a mind. A woman behind him whispered.

"Walker…"

At that word, the balding man to Daryl's right began moaning quietly, but his vacant expression didn't change. Daryl glared at him. These assholes were scared of being Pacified, of being turned into Walkers, as the lower classes called them? Idiots shouldn't be afraid of having their minds stripped from them. It was more or less the same as being dead. It was being _awake_ and _aware_ that was fucking terrifying.

The sound of a gavel falling dragged Daryl's attention back to the stage. The Walker was tugged down off the platform, and he lumbered mindlessly off into the wings on the other end of the stage. Daryl had no idea if he'd been sold or not, and honestly, he didn't give a fuck. Walkers had no problems anymore.

The judge idly shuffled through the papers on the dais, then looked up with a bored expression.

"The next lot is number 1842, Daryl Dixon," he called loudly.

Daryl took a deep, steadying breath, ignoring the stench that filled his nostrils. The guard came over to the cage, looked him in the eye, and unlocked the door.

"No funny business, asshole," the guard snarled. Daryl's lips tightened, but he said nothing. He strode confidently out of the cage, then paused obediently as the guard swung the door shut behind him and locked it once more. Daryl could hear the other prisoners shifting, and one started weeping quietly, but he pushed them out of his mind. Anger coursed through him, burning behind his sweaty palms in his still-clenched fists. Before the guard could shove him towards the stage, Daryl slowly walked out into the light. The heat from the lamps at the front edge of the stage made him break out in a fresh sweat, slicking his bare chest and legs. Sawdust that had been spread on the floor swirled up and clung to his feet and calves. He glanced briefly at the old, dark stains beneath the sawdust on the smooth wooden floor.

_At least a few people fought back_, he thought grimly.

Without prompting, Daryl stepped up onto the platform and glared through the lights into the crowd. Wealthy and well-to-do folks milled around, sipping jovially on drinks dripping with condensation and clinking with ice. Some of the wealthiest, lords and ladies, were being fanned gently by their own slaves. From this distance, Daryl couldn't tell if the slaves were Walkers or contractors—indentured servants whose contracts had been purchased. Somehow, he doubted any of them were actually hired help.

Daryl resisted the urge to swallow hard to soothe his parched throat or to try and tug at the humiliatingly revealing loincloth they'd supplied him with. The sad, brown excuse for underwear hid practically nothing. His cheeks were burning, but it was suppressed fury causing it, not embarrassment.

Behind him, the judge cleared his throat. "Lot 1842 has been charged with robbery, battery, and attempted manslaughter under the familial atonement clause of Article 52.3.3 of the Georgian Code of Law. The perpetrator was his brother, Merle Dixon. In light of their close familial ties and time spent together, I hereby sentence Mr. Dixon to be punished to the full extent of the law for his brother's crimes. The preliminary sentence is life indenture. Auctioneer, you may proceed."

The auctioneer, a burly man wearing a thick, sleeveless leather jerkin, grinned.

"Well, folks, what we have here today is a man in his prime, used to the backwoods life and hard labor." He swung a pointing stick at Daryl and slapped him on the arm. Daryl ground his teeth, but he held his peace. "Just look at these arms, ladies and gentlemen! This man would have no problem doing some heavy lifting." He struck Daryl's legs next. "You don't get legs like these without stamina. Consider him an all-purpose asset! Can I start the bidding at twenty credits?"

The crowd eyed him, but none of those pasty-faced assholes lifted a finger to bid. The auctioneer shook his head.

"Ladies and gentlemen, don't let him go to waste! After all, he's good for more than just yard work." When the auctioneer waggled his eyebrows, Daryl had to take several slow, deep breaths to keep from leaping forward and strangling him. _Not yet, not yet._ "This man has been untried, so he's yours to break in as you choose! Do I hear fifteen credits?"

A woman near the stage got a glint in her eye as she looked Daryl over. His skin crawled. She delicately lifted a hand, but before she could speak, Daryl cut in.

"I got somethin' to say," he announced loudly. Suddenly, he had the full attention of the entire room, and he could feel their gazes prickling his skin. The auctioneer glanced at him anxiously, eyes narrowing. "If you folks want to buy me, that's your right, according to this fucked up government we have. But you know what I think?"

"That's enough out of you," the auctioneer warned, but Daryl ignored him.

"You're all fucking _monsters_," Daryl spat. "Sitting there in your pretty fucking mansions, fucking your pretty fucking slaves. We're not the ones who should be shot, _you fuckers are_. And if any one of you has the _balls_ to come near me, _I'LL TEAR YOUR FUCKING ARMS OFF!_"

He could see the guards rushing towards him out of the corner of his eye, and he smiled grimly.

"FUCK you, FUCK your government, and FUCK this entire fucking COUNTRY!" he yelled, pent-up rage bursting out of him. When a guard reached out to him, he gripped one fist in the other and swung hard at the man's face. He clocked the guard square in the temple, and the man dropped like a rock. Daryl snarled at the other guards and glared out into the crowd. "I hope you all _rot in hell!_"

The auctioneer looked behind Daryl, most likely giving the judge his cue. Adrenaline pulsed through Daryl's veins, and he rocked up onto the balls of his feet. Any second now, it would all be over. With any luck, Merle, that fucking asshole, was long gone, and they'd never find him. Daryl turned to stare challengingly at the judge. He'd force that man to look him in the fucking eyes as he stripped Daryl's mind away. The judge looked down at him, clearly unimpressed, and lifted the remote.

"Two hundred credits!"

The call from the back of the room brought everything to a standstill. Slowly, Daryl turned back to the crowd, squinting as he tried to make out the fucking idiot who'd just bid on him. Whoever it was, he was deep in the shadows. Daryl scowled.

"Are you a fucking retard?" he yelled. "I told you that I'll fuck you up, and I meant it!"

The auctioneer was also squinting out into the crowd, one hand raised to shade his eyes. Thrown off his game, the man sputtered.

"I…I have a bid for two hundred credits from…" Some cue in the back made the man inhale sharply and straighten. "From Lord Grimes. Do I hear two-oh-one?"

Silence. The other wealthy assholes looked at each other, and the auctioneer shifted his feet awkwardly. Daryl stared at his mystery buyer incredulously.

"Seriously, I will fucking cut you!" he called out. The auctioneer glanced nervously at the judge, who actually looked uncomfortable for a change, but the white-haired man slowly shook his head. The auctioneer swallowed and nodded.

"If…if I have no more bids…" He paused uneasily. "Then…lot 1842 is sold to Lord Richard Grimes for two hundred credits."

After a moment's hesitation, the judge struck his gavel. Shock froze Daryl to his spot on the platform. He'd deliberately acted out. He'd threatened the entire crowd. He'd punched a guard in the head. Why the fuck would somebody buy him for that much money? Daryl could've lived on two hundred credits for _two months_. He was so startled that when a guard tugged him off the platform, all he could do was stumble obediently behind him. The darkness of the wings on the far side of the stage swallowed him, and he jerked against his captor's hold. The guard dragged him through a pair of double doors into a lit corridor that ran along the outside of the auction room.

"Wait…wait a fucking minute!" he blurted. The guard glared at him, but he didn't reply. "I was supposed to…you were supposed to fucking Pacify me! Or kill me! What the fuck is wrong with you people?!"

The guard scowled. "Maybe you'll get lucky and your new owner will Pacify you," he shot back. Then the man glanced sideways at him with a faint leer. "Or maybe you won't, and he won't. I hear some people like their contractors…_feisty_."

Daryl stomach turned. No. _No._ He would _not_ become a sex slave, not while he was alive and thinking. Adrenaline shot through him again, and he shoved at the guard, hoping to catch him off balance. This guard was no slouch, however, and he instinctively turned into Daryl's push and swung him around by his cuffs. A sharp kick to Daryl's stomach knocked the wind out of him, and he doubled over. Clenching his teeth, Daryl ignored his burning lungs and charged forward. The guard wrapped his beefy arms around him and squeezed, growling into Daryl's ear.

"You little _fucker_," the guard ground out. As Daryl struggled, kicking at the man's knees, he looked over his shoulder at another man hovering nearby. "Andre, get a fucking remote—"

"Don't you dare," a calm, cool voice cut in.

Daryl stopped struggling for a moment, twisting in the guard's arms to look at the newcomer. The guard actually dropped him and stepped back, hands raised.

"L-Lord Grimes. I'm sorry, but he started fighting me. I had to restrain him—"

"Then restrain him," the man interrupted coldly. He stepped forward, light catching on his formal clothing. A deep red robe coat with gold trim was draped over a fitted black velvet vest and white shirt, a thin gold chain wrapping around his trim waist. The lord's family crest, a big red and gold standard with a knight's helmet on top, was embroidered on his left breast. Tight, black pants were tucked into a pair of tall, black leather boots that gleamed dully in the light. A tall black woman hovered behind him, a sword strapped to her back. Her eyes glinted.

Lord Grimes gave Daryl an assessing look, blue eyes void of emotion. His lips tightened behind his thick beard.

"Have they done anything to you?" he questioned brusquely.

Daryl stared at him. "You mean aside from fucking selling me to the highest bidder?"

"Yes."

_Motherfucker._ Daryl ground his teeth. "No, they ain't done nothing to me. You looking to break me yourself? Didn't want somebody else to get to me first?"

Instead of replying, Lord Grimes turned to the nervous guard. "I'll take it from here. Tell Judge Avery that the credits will be wired to the court's account before midnight."

"Yes, milord. I will." The guard's head bobbed eagerly. Daryl watched him apprehensively, then turned to his new owner. What the hell kind of man was he? Why were the guards so nervous around him? He swallowed and shifted his weight.

What kind of man had just purchased the rest of Daryl's life?

The man named Andre stepped closer to Lord Grimes, timidly holding out an embossed card.

"Would you like to have his code, Lord Grimes?" Andre asked quietly. Lord Grimes took the card, glanced at it, and wordlessly handed it off to the black woman. She stuffed it into the neck of her brown leather vest. Andre shifted his feet. "I assume you also have a remote at home?"

Lord Grimes said nothing, staring the man down with a gaze as cold as ice. Andre visibly wilted under the attention.

"I, ah. I'll take that as a yes." Andre wrung his hands, shoulders climbing towards his ears as Lord Grimes continued to glare at him. "Is there something else you needed tonight, milord?"

Lord Grimes held out a hand, palm up. When Andre merely stared at it like it was a snake ready to strike, the lord grimaced.

"The _key_, if you don't mind," he demanded shortly. Andre flinched, then dug in his pockets.

"Of course! Of course, sir, I apologize. Here it is!" He withdrew the key to Daryl's shackles and handed it over, smiling weakly. Lord Grimes closed his fingers around the metal key and turned to eye the guard at Daryl's side. The burly man shrank back.

Lord Grimes stepped closer, gazing intently at the guard. "Let this be a warning to you. If you _ever_ lay a hand on my property again…" His voice dropped a register, eyes narrowing. "You'll be the next person on the auction block. Is that clear?"

The guard's head bobbed again, and he took a sharp step backwards. "Yes, milord! Understood. It'll never happen again."

"See that it doesn't." Lord Grimes turned back to Daryl. "We're leaving."

Daryl stared at him, flexing his fingers. "Are you an idiot? What the fuck makes you think I'm going anywhere with you? You should either Pacify me or kill me, because I fucking swear I'll come after you."

Lord Grimes gave him an unimpressed look. "I have no intention of ever Pacifying you," he stated baldly. "And if your life is worth that little to you, you can go ahead and push Michonne into murdering you. Personally, I would find that to be a waste."

Daryl glanced at the black woman—Michonne—and narrowed his eyes at Lord Grimes. "A waste of your precious money?"

Lord Grimes' expression didn't so much as flicker. "That money meant nothing to me. Your life, however, is something I consider valuable. It's up to you to decide whether you want it to mean something."

With that, the lord turned on his heel and began walking towards the front exit. Michonne put her hand on the hilt of her sword and flanked Daryl, wordlessly encouraging him to move forward. Daryl glared at her, then scowled at the lord's back.

"I ain't bending over for you, you sick fucker!" he roared. "You may own my contract, but you don't fucking own _me!_"

Lord Grimes stopped dead in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder, eyes glinting.

"_GOOD._"

And with that baffling statement, the lord continued on his way. Eyebrows furrowed, Daryl followed along behind him with Michonne matching his stride. The three of them walked silently down the mostly empty hallway, the cool tiled floor slick beneath Daryl's sawdust-encrusted feet. Every so often, a swell of noise burst out of the auction room. When they hit the lobby, the ceiling swooped up and away from them in an intricately carved marble dome. Quotes about freedom were interwoven with stone ivy that climbed the walls. A statue of the governor stood proudly at the center of the lobby, golden laurels at his massive feet. Daryl scowled.

_A man of great honor_, the statue's plaque proclaimed. _He granted us freedom from criminals. Peace and prosperity. Virtue._

Daryl just barely refrained from spitting at it. The Governor was said to have a massive mansion staffed entirely by a legion of Walkers, and he'd pushed through countless new bills that encouraged Pacification for less and less serious crimes. Nobody knew what the guy's problem was with the masses, but ever since he'd been elected, anyone who wasn't part of the nobility had been walking lightly. The nobles, being the only class who weren't implanted with Pacification chips at birth, had slightly less to fear. They couldn't be sold, and they couldn't be Pacified.

They sure as fuck could be killed, though.

Two armed guards were waiting at the front doors of the courthouse. The moment they spotted Lord Grimes, both men straightened to attention and pulled open the heavy oak doors. The lord paused and turned towards Daryl and Michonne, waiting patiently for the two of them to catch up. Once they had, he stepped out into the night.

Cool air hit Daryl's bare, sweaty skin, causing goosebumps to instantly break out. He shivered involuntarily. Cars drove past at a leisurely pace, few drivers willing to risk a speeding violation right in front of the courthouse. At a nearby café, people were eating and drinking merrily, unconcerned that so many of their peers were being sold off as property a handful of yards away. After all, criminals deserved what happened to them, didn't they? Daryl scowled.

_Just wait until somebody you know does something stupid and lands __**you**__ on the block,_ Daryl thought sourly.

A black sedan was waiting for them at the curb. An elderly white man was standing beside it, hands clasped in front of him. At the sight of Lord Grimes, the old man broke out with a grin. He nodded at Daryl.

"Is this him?" he asked eagerly. Daryl frowned. _"Him"? _

Lord Grimes nodded. "Yeah, Dale, this is him. Let's just hurry up and get home, alright?"

Daryl's eyes snapped towards the lord. His tone had warmed considerably when speaking to his servant, his southern drawl instantly becoming more pronounced. Where had the crisp, cool speech of the nobility gone? Dale moved to open the rear door for Lord Grimes, but Michonne stepped forward.

"Rick, are you sure about this?" she hissed. Daryl's eyebrows flew up. _She's addressing him informally?_

Lord Grimes glanced at Daryl, and to his shock, actually quirked his lips up into a half smile. "Michonne, I'm pretty sure that if he tries to kill me, he won't get far before you stab him. Daryl, when was the last time they even fed you?"

Daryl blinked. _What the fuck is going on here?_ "Yesterday, I guess?"

"You gonna try and kill me when we get in the car, or can it wait until we get home?" Lord Grimes asked dryly.

Daryl wanted to protest that he'd take the fucker out as soon as possible, but…he had to admit, he was getting a little bit curious. Why did Lord Grimes look so _pleased_ when Daryl had stood up to him? Why did he let his servant speak so informally to him? And what the fuck did his driver mean when he asked if Daryl was "him"? Did Lord Grimes come to the courthouse specifically for Daryl? _Why?_

After a long moment, Daryl stiffly shrugged his shoulders. "I guess it can wait."

"Great." Lord Grimes climbed into the back seat and slid down to the other end. Michonne glared at Daryl, but she moved to the front passenger side door without protest. She slung the sword off her back and got into the car, her movements short and furious.

Daryl hesitated, but another cool gust of wind made him shiver again, and he stepped into the car. The black leather of the seat clung to his skin. Daryl shifted uncomfortably as Dale shut the door behind him, the sawdust on his skin prickling and itching. Michonne twisted in her seat, sword in her lap. She stared intently at Daryl, making him frown reflexively. Dale chuckled quietly to himself as he got into the car and started it up. They gently inched their way into the flowing traffic, and away they went.

The four of them sat in silence for several minutes. Daryl found himself staring suspiciously at Lord Grimes, who was gazing out the window with a contemplative look on his face. Street lights swept across his skin, periodically casting him in shadow. Michonne sat as still as a statue, eyes never wavering from Daryl. Just when Daryl felt the need to start fidgeting, Lord Grimes blinked and turned to face him.

"If you promise not to try and strangle me, I'll remove those cuffs," he offered in a low voice. Daryl dropped his eyes to the overly tight shackles, then looked back up at Lord Grimes' light blue eyes. He wordlessly held out his wrists.

Michonne's hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. "Rick."

"Michonne," Lord Grimes returned mildly. He gently took hold of Daryl's cuffs and pushed the key into the lock. "It's not that I trust you, just so you know. I just don't think you're stupid."

Daryl glowered at him. "Fuck you."

That half-smile flashed again. With a quiet click, the shackles popped open. Daryl pursed his lips to keep from sighing in relief, and he reflexively began to rub at his abused wrists. The skin was red and raw, blood welling up where the iron had broken his flesh. Lord Grimes eyed them, then wordlessly leaned forward to dig in a pouch attached to the back of Michonne's seat. He pulled out a tube of ointment, hesitated, and extended it to Daryl. Daryl stared at him, then slowly took the tube. His fingers fumbled as he twisted the cap off and squirted some of the white cream into his palm. He gingerly rubbed the ointment into his skin, briefly closing his eyes at the soothing coolness that sank into him. When he opened his eyes, Lord Grimes was staring at him. Daryl scowled.

"What's with you?" he asked defensively, leaning away from the other man. Lord Grimes shrugged, glanced at the tube of ointment, and then looked away. Daryl's eyebrows furrowed. _Did he want to do this for me?_ he thought incredulously. _What the fuck is wrong with this guy?_ He shifted away from the lord, pressing his back up against the door. He asked suspiciously, "Why'd you want to sit with me in the back of the car, anyway?"

Lord Grimes glanced at him, eyebrows raised. He snorted inelegantly.

"Not for the reason you're thinking right now, I can promise you that." Shaking his head, the nobleman reached down and pulled a black drawstring back out from underneath Michonne's seat. He tossed the bag lightly at Daryl, who caught it reflexively. "Here. I'm sure you're sick of parading around in that underwear, and there's no need for you to be nearly naked when we get to the manor."

Daryl stared at the bag in his hands, then slowly opened it. He pulled out a towel, a soft gray t-shirt, and some sweatpants. When he dug around a bit, his fingers also caught on a pair of socks and slippers. He pulled them out, then looked questioningly at Lord Grimes. The other man shrugged.

"Didn't know your shoe size."

Baffled, Daryl used the towel to wipe off the sweat and sawdust and gingerly pulled on the clothing he'd been given. Nothing had Lord Grimes' family crest on it, or any other indication that Daryl was property. He felt himself relaxing slightly, now that he was clothed like an actual human being. Frowning, he folded his arms.

"Why're you doing this, man? Did you…" he hesitated because the idea was retarded, but he couldn't help continuing, "…did you come to the courthouse just to buy _me_?"

Lord Grimes looked at him. "Yes."

"_Why?_ There ain't nothin' special about me."

The nobleman looked him over, expression betraying nothing. His eyes rose to meet Daryl's.

"A few reasons. One, your lot said that none of the crimes you were convicted for had anything to do with you." Lord Grimes's expression darkened. "That would almost be reason enough. Two, you're young, and you're fit." When Daryl tensed, the lord rolled his eyes. "Relax. I'm not going to try anything with you. Even if I were that kind of guy, Michonne would gut me."

"Damn straight," the woman chimed in. Daryl shifted uncomfortably. He still couldn't figure out why the psychotic woman was so _comfortable_ around the man.

"And three, you fought back. You still have some spirit left." Something profoundly sad crossed Lord Grimes' face, but it disappeared before Daryl could react to it. "Wasn't sure you were worth it until that."

Daryl placed his hands over his knees and clenched them into fists. "Those sound like shit reasons to me."

Instead of taking offense, Lord Grimes shrugged it off. "Well, they're mine, and they're the best you're going to get for now."

Daryl's eyes narrowed. _Which means that you had another reason for buying me. What the fuck are you __**up**__ to?_

Deciding to drop the topic for now, Daryl glared out the window. The city of Atlanta streamed by, lights and music gently caressing the car as they passed through. To look at it, you'd never know how fucked the majority of people were. Even in the dark, he could pick out Walkers running errands for their masters, their shuffling gaits distinctive from a distance. That had nearly been Daryl's fate, and he wasn't entirely certain if he was disappointed or not. Being brain-dead had to be a step up from being a living, suffering slave, right?

He sat in troubled silence for the rest of the ride out of the city.

* * *

The hour had grown late by the time the black sedan finally turned onto a narrow, paved road. Daryl straightened, glancing warily at the towering stone and wrought-iron fence that surrounded the lord's home. A woman with long brown hair stood on a platform behind the wall to the side of a massive, heavy gate. When Dale waved at her through the windshield, she nodded shortly and gestured to somebody unseen with the massive gun in her hands. The gate slowly opened just enough to let the sedan through, and it swung shut the second all four tires hit the cobbled driveway. A large, bald black man waved at them from the ground, another large gun in his hands. Daryl took note of them briefly, but his attention was almost immediately captured by the colossal building in front of them.

Lord Grimes' manor was less a house and more a gothic fortress, with towers and buttresses jutting up everywhere. The entire compound was surrounded by a stone fence that had a walkway running behind it, and other people wearing dark clothing could be seen moving along it. The manor itself had a façade of deep gray stone, and it loomed like a gargoyle over the courtyard they were pulling into. Daryl stared up at it apprehensively. Just how rich _was_ Lord Grimes? Daryl had spotted a large house or two over his lifetime, but this manor was easily the largest building he'd ever seen that wasn't a skyscraper.

_No wonder he thought two hundred credits was nothing._

Dale pulled the car up to the grand entryway and came to a gentle stop. Michonne didn't move, having not budged from her twisted position in her seat. Daryl just stared at the massive door leading into the house. Lord Grimes glanced at all three of them, rolled his eyes, and opened his door.

"C'mon. Let's get you inside and get some food in you," he said casually as he stepped out of the car. Michonne immediately followed suit. After a moment's hesitation, Daryl opened his own door and stepped outside. Somehow, the manor seemed even larger once he was standing in front of it. It felt like the building itself was judging him, and Daryl was definitely coming up short. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the sensation and began to follow the lord up the smooth sandstone steps leading to the front door. Before he could get very far, however, Michonne came up beside him, grabbed his arm, and leaned in close.

"You try _anything_ to hurt Rick or our people, and I'll cut your arms off," she hissed. Daryl looked at her incredulously.

"Why the fuck do you call him Rick?" he shot back. "What's wrong with you? Doesn't he own you?"

Michonne simply glared at him in reply. She stormed up the steps to Lord Grimes, who was waiting by the door and watching them with open curiosity. She muttered something to him that Daryl couldn't hear, and when the nobleman shook his head, she glanced back at Daryl, scowled, and moved to open the front door. Lord Grimes waved at Dale, who cheerfully drove off. Daryl slowly made his way up the steps, his slippers quietly scuffing against the stone. Lord Grimes waited until Daryl was beside him to go inside. Daryl followed, passing a clearly ticked off Michonne, who sullenly closed the door behind him.

The grand foyer expanded before him, gleaming with dark marble floors and polished wooden bannisters. The scent of polish and rosewood hit Daryl's nose. Above him, a shimmering crystal chandelier dominated the ceiling, its sharp edges pointing down threateningly at him. Despite the late hour, Daryl could hear people moving through the hallways, chatting quietly as they performed whatever tasks they had been given. Lord Grimes glanced at Daryl, then tipped his head.

"Kitchen's this way. Come on." He looked back at Michonne. "We'll be fine. Get some rest."

The black woman glowered at him, but she didn't protest. Daryl watched her climb the spiraling stairs to the side of the foyer. Lifting an eyebrow, he turned to Lord Grimes.

"I thought you said you didn't trust me."

"I don't." The nobleman moved to a table with a massive flower arrangement on top of it. He stuck his hand into the bouquet and almost immediately withdrew a tremendous, silver revolver. He nonchalantly checked the cylinder, slid it back in place, and lowered the gun, his thumb on the hammer. "But now I'm armed."

Daryl looked at the gun, then brought his eyes back up to Lord Grimes'. He nodded. The lord gestured with the gun for Daryl to precede him. Shrugging mentally, Daryl did as he was asked. If the man wanted to kill him now on his nice, shiny floors, that wasn't really a problem for Daryl, and he had a feeling that Lord Grimes had been sincere when he said that Daryl's life was valuable to him. What that meant, exactly, Daryl had no fucking clue, but at least he wasn't likely to get shot in the back.

Lord Grimes fell into step behind him and to his right, just out of grabbing range. The marble of the foyer gave way to wood and carpet as they walked into a hallway. The walls were painted an inoffensive shade of cream, dotted here and there by a framed portrait or landscape. Every other light in the hallway was turned off, filling the corridor with shadows. Before long, the scent of food began to waft into Daryl's nose, and his stomach started growling. His shoulders tensed, waiting for mockery from the other man, but Lord Grimes said nothing. Light spilled into the hallway from a large opening in the wall, and Daryl could hear people talking amiably. After a quick glance at Lord Grimes, Daryl stepped through the entryway into a tremendous kitchen.

Several people looked up at him, pausing in their conversation. A young, blonde woman was perched on a pristine countertop, her legs swinging idly. Another woman with short brown hair leaned against the same counter, arms folded over her chest. An Asian man was seated at a huge wooden table next to a white-haired Caucasian man with a bushy beard. Lord Grimes stepped up beside him.

"Everyone, meet Daryl Dixon. He'll be joining our little family here," Lord Grimes told the group. He pointed at each person individually. "Daryl, meet Hershel, his daughters, Beth and Maggie, and Maggie's husband, Glenn."

"I like how I'm the afterthought," Glenn piped up. He was nibbling on a piece of cheese. "It's not like I contribute around here or anything."

Lord Grimes rolled his eyes. "I appreciate everything you do, Glenn. Daryl, take my advice, and don't play chess with him. Ever."

"Spoilsport!"

The nobleman shook his head. "I'm tired, Daryl's got to be tired, and he's hungry. Will one of you fix him something to eat and show him to his room?"

Maggie straightened up, eyeing Daryl up and down. "I can handle that."

"Thanks." Lord Grimes looked at Daryl, an assessing glint in his eyes. "Don't do anything stupid."

With that, the nobleman left the bright kitchen. Daryl stared after him. He really, truly wasn't sure what to think about all of this. What the fuck did Lord Grimes bring him here for?

While he thought, Maggie moved to the fridge and perused its contents. "You allergic to anything, Daryl?"

He started. "I…nah. I can eat anything."

She nodded. "Alright. Sandwich sound good for right now?" She didn't wait for a response before she started pulling out ingredients. Daryl watched as she stacked them on the counter, pulled down a plate, and began efficiently constructing a massive sandwich with what looked like turkey, ham, roast beef, and cheese. Humiliatingly, Daryl's stomach let out a loud grumble, but none of the people in the kitchen reacted to it. He looked away from the food and found himself locking eyes with Hershel.

The older man was watching him intently, but there was no hostility in his expression. After a moment, his features softened.

"You must be awfully confused, son," he spoke quietly. Something about his gentle tone made Daryl shift his weight uncomfortably. Hershel gave him a faint smile. "It'll be alright. You're safe here."

"Yeah? Safe from who?" Daryl muttered under his breath. Hershel seemed to hear him anyway, and his smile took on a sad edge.

Maggie completed the sandwich and moved to put the rest of the ingredients back in the fridge. She put her hands on her hips and looked Daryl in the eye.

"You wanna eat this down here, or eat it in your room?" she asked. There was a faintly challenging glint in her eyes that Daryl didn't understand, but he was suddenly too tired to care. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to know these fucking people, and he didn't want to be somebody's property. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"In my room, I guess." _At least that way I don't have to talk to any of you._

Maggie nodded, grabbed a handful of napkins, and picked up the plate. She handed it to him brusquely. Daryl's eyes dropped to the sandwich, a giant monstrosity of thick bread, meat, cheese, and various condiments oozing out the sides. It looked fucking delicious. His stomach rumbled again. This time, her lips quirked upwards.

"Come on, you." She led the way back out into the hallway. Daryl paused briefly to look at the others. Beth smiled at him and lifted a hand, Hershel nodded, and Glenn simply watched him. Frowning, Daryl followed the woman out into the dark corridor.

Maggie led him up several flights of stairs, narrow windows giving him brief glimpses of the sprawling manor grounds. Just as Daryl started to tire, his steps dragging, she stepped out onto a landing and stopped at the first door on the right. She opened the door, reached in, and flicked on a light. She then stepped back and gestured Daryl in. Eyeing her suspiciously, he walked past her into the room and froze.

The room was huge, filled with a massive bed lumped high with blankets and pillows. A thick carpet squished under his feet. A large wooden dresser took up a good portion of the far wall, with a window that overlooked the sprawling back yard of the manor. A small table sat to the right of the bed, with two small, upholstered chairs on either side. Another open door to the left revealed a large en suite bathroom, complete with a tub _and_ a separate shower stall. Daryl stared at the room in shock, then turned to look at the woman who'd brought him here.

"What the fuck?" he managed. "This ain't no cell."

She grinned. "Was that what you were expecting? Sorry to disappoint you."

Daryl stared at her helplessly. "What the fuck is going on here?"

Her grin faded, and she shrugged, looking away. "You'll figure it out." She nodded at the dresser. "We put some clothes that might fit you in the dresser. Beth'll take your measurements tomorrow, get you fitted properly. We'll pick up your dishes in the morning when we come get you for breakfast. The shower will never run out of hot water, so take as long as you like."

Daryl's eyes narrowed. "In the morning. You locking me in here?"

"Yup." She raised an eyebrow. "You gotta earn our trust first. If you do that, you'll be free to come and go like the rest of us. Rick isn't keeping us prisoner."

He huffed out a breath and set the plate down on the small table. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of it.

"_Why_ do you all call him that? Why're you all so comfortable around him?"

"Rick?" she repeated, surprise coloring her tone. "He hates being called Lord Grimes. He usually won't even respond if you try to."

Daryl turned his head to stare at her. "Does he own you?"

She sniffed. "Rick owns my contract, yes. He doesn't own me."

"He know that?"

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Obviously." She looked him in the eyes. "He isn't the kind of man you think he is, Daryl Dixon. You might want to give him a chance."

Daryl frowned at her. "Why should I?"

She smiled slowly. "Because we might need you."

With that bizarre statement, she stepped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her. The lock turned with a quiet _snick_. Daryl stared at the door for a long moment. The hell was that supposed to mean? Shaking his head, he put a hand to his temple and began rubbing it. None of this made any goddamn sense. Why would they need him? Why would Lord Grimes—Rick—buy a bunch of people who stood up to him and addressed him by his real name? Did he just like breaking people?

Daryl closed his eyes and shook his head again. Michonne, Maggie, and Glenn didn't seem broken. They didn't seem cowed in the least. If that's what Rick wanted, why didn't he just hire people with attitude? Why _buy_ them?

With a sigh, he moved to the window and looked down. It was a sharp drop from his window to the ground, with nothing but several stories of smooth stone beneath him. Nothing obvious to grab onto as hand or footholds. Rick had been telling the truth—he _didn't_ trust Daryl. At least he wasn't stupid.

Mind filled with troubled thoughts, Daryl ate his sandwich and took a quick shower that unintentionally became a long one once he felt that soothing water hit his skin. He hadn't been able to clean himself since the police had taken charge of him two weeks ago, and it felt unbelievably good to wash all of that sweat and grime off his body. He didn't even care that the soap and shampoo were fancy-ass brands that smelled like girly shit. Once done with his shower, he swaddled himself in the largest, fluffiest towel he'd ever seen. He held up a corner to his nose and simply inhaled the scent of clean fabric. Sighing, he stepped back out into his room and rummaged in the dresser for something to wear as pajamas.

After he'd dressed himself, he crossed over to the door and rattled the handle. The lock held firm. Daryl grimaced as he looked around the room. What could he use as a weapon? Just because these crazy people were being nice to him, that didn't mean that they couldn't be trying to sucker him into a false sense of security. Or worse, for all he knew, Rick had a key to the room and would come in here in the middle of the night, reassurances be damned. Scowling, Daryl combed the room. Underneath the dresser, he found a long, sharp sliver of wood that had separated from the baseboard, and he broke it off with a wrench of his hand. He eyed it with grim satisfaction. If he aimed right, he could take out an eye with it.

Uneasy, Daryl crawled into bed and stuffed the sliver under his pillow. He left the light on. If Rick—Lord Grimes—_whatever _tried to come in here and force himself on Daryl, he sure as fuck wasn't going to be taken by surprise.

Hours passed, and despite himself, Daryl found himself falling into a deep, restless sleep.

* * *

Rick stood in his dark study, wearily pouring himself a triple shot of whiskey. He carefully put the cap back on the bottle and stared at his tumbler with poorly disguised hatred.

_You've done it again, you son of a bitch_, he thought darkly. _You own another human being. A man who thinks you bought him as a sex slave. Does it feel good? _He reached out and picked up the glass, fingers clenching tightly around the delicate crystal. _Is it fucking worth it?_

Rick gritted his teeth. "_Yes,_" he hissed aloud into the silence. "Yes, it's worth it. It _has_ to be worth it."

Moving over to the window, he glared out into the sprawling lands he'd inherited from his father. His father, who'd raised him to value all life equally, who would never dream of owning another soul. His father, who would be _disgusted_ if he could see his son now. Scowling, Rick tossed all three shots back in one fluid motion and slammed the glass down on the windowsill. The crystal cracked loudly.

"Think of Carl," he muttered to himself. "Think of Judith. It's _worth it_."

He braced his hands on the windowsill and lowered his head. He hissed one more time.

"_It's worth it._"

* * *

**A/N: Cover image done by AmandaTolleson. Check her out on deviantart! Crossposted to AO3 and my tumblr (all under akaitsume).**


	2. Lifeboat

A brusque knock on the door woke Daryl immediately, and he reached instinctively for the sliver of wood under his pillow. He blinked dazedly in the morning light, trying to orient himself. As the key turned heavily in his door's lock, he sat up warily and let his thick brown comforter pool at his waist. Daryl frowned. He'd slept the entire night through, completely unmolested. Lord Grimes had never tried to break in. His fingers tightened on the sliver of wood in his hand. Why would anyone knock on his door before opening it? To give him some semblance of privacy? What use was privacy to property?

The door opened, revealing Maggie. She poked her head into the room, eyed him, and smirked.

"Morning, sunshine. You ready for breakfast?"

Daryl stared at her for a moment. He shrugged, covertly stowing his makeshift weapon back under his pillow as he flipped his bedcovers off his legs. Her eyes dropped briefly to his pillow, but she said nothing. He frowned again, placing his hands on his back and stretching. He glanced at the bathroom.

"Wanna give me a minute?" he asked gruffly. She lifted a shoulder.

"I'm in no rush. Take your time."

When Maggie made no move to leave, he shook his head and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door with a little more force than necessary. He placed his hands on the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His mind whirled.

_I've been given a room half the size my entire apartment was. Nobody tried to get in during the night. She knocked before coming in. She even noticed my little weapon, and she didn't say anything._ _And she can't be on my side, because she seems loyal to Grimes._ He exhaled heavily. So far, nothing he'd experienced since stepping up on that auction block had been anything like he'd thought it would. He'd assumed that he'd be beaten, starved, and forced to do humiliating things for some arrogant son of a bitch who got off on that shit. Why give Daryl any luxuries at all? Even if he were just a servant, instead of a slave, there was no need to give him so much room. Frown deepening, he pulled back the mirror to reveal a medicine cabinet. As he'd vaguely suspected, it was full of multiple brands of deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrushes, ointments, and lotions. An electric razor sat on the bottom shelf, its cord plugged into an electrical socket hidden inside the cabinet. He picked it up for a moment, then scowled and put it back. _I ain't making myself pretty for nobody._

He brushed his teeth quickly and tossed on some deodorant, stealing glances at the bathroom door as he did so. When he finished, he opened the door and frowned at the woman, but she didn't appear to have moved from her spot by the open bedroom door. He glanced at his pillow, looked back at her, and nodded towards it.

"You going to tell Lord Grimes about that?"

She shrugged. "Not as long as it stays in here." Maggie gave him a considering look. "I can't blame you for wanting to protect yourself. As long as it doesn't step beyond that, we won't have problems, you and me."

Daryl grunted and moved to the dresser. "But you don't think I need it," he responded dryly.

"I know you don't."

Daryl shook his head. Reaching into the various drawers, he pulled out a shirt, a pair of boxers, and a pair of jeans. He moved to pull off his shirt, then hesitated. He glared over his shoulder.

"You mind?"

A hint of a smile touched Maggie's lips. "Not at all." Without a fuss, she stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her. He shook his head and pulled off his shirt. Daryl wasn't modest by any stretch, and if he had been, his two-week stint in the holding pens probably would've cured him of it, but…only two, maybe three people in this house had seen his back with its network of scars. He didn't need to add anyone else to that list.

It would be just his sort of luck if his father had ended up treating him worse than Daryl's new owner would.

As he changed, Daryl looked out over the lord's property in the strong morning light. Beyond the towering wall, a wide, clear swathe of green served as a secondary perimeter around the house. Without cover, anyone attempting to cross it would be spotted easily by the people patrolling on the platform. To the left, a massive, thick forest curled away from the house and rolled down the nearby hills. To the right, an orchard stood proudly, colorful fruit peeking out from behind its foliage. Daryl could just barely make out a few people weaving between the trees with baskets in their arms. To the back of the property, sweeping fields of wheat bowed gently in the wind. A silo and shed stood alone beyond the orchard, and a small garden had taken root just behind the patrolled wall. Daryl slowly shook his head. Acres upon acres upon acres of land, with not another house to be seen for miles. Somehow, Daryl wouldn't be surprised if Lord Grimes owned everything that he could see from this window. Meanwhile, Daryl and other people like him grew up with a handful of credits to their names, if they were lucky. It just didn't seem right.

Lips pursed, Daryl chucked his dirty clothes into a hamper tucked into the corner and jammed his feet back into his slippers. He stepped over to the bed and reached under the pillow, just to double check that his little weapon was still there. Even as his fingers closed over it, he frowned. Twenty minutes ago, he would've laughed at the notion, but now he wondered if someone would come to make his bed for him. If they did, whoever it was would find his piece of wood in an instant. Daryl hesitated, then scowled.

_Goddamn it_. Using short, angry movements, Daryl made his bed. He lifted up a corner of the fitted sheet for his mattress and tucked the sliver of wood away. He smoothed the sheet, placed his pillow atop the faint bulge of the wood, and folded his comforter above it. He frowned down at his bed, but it was the best he could do for now. They'd practically promised him that someone would be rifling through his chest of drawers once they found him more clothing, so he couldn't hide anything in there. Maybe, if they saw that his bed was neat, they'd leave it alone.

And if they found his makeshift weapon, well, he'd just have to deal with it.

With that thought in mind, Daryl walked to his little table, grabbed his plate from last night, made his way over to the door, and tugged it open. Maggie, who was leaning against the wall, straightened immediately. She eyed him, nodded, and turned towards the stairs without a word. Daryl quietly closed the door behind him and followed.

Unlike the night before, this morning, the house was abuzz with activity. With each floor they passed on their way down the stairs, Daryl spied people, most of them seemingly in their twenties and thirties, chatting in the hallways and carrying various items that they ostensibly needed for their duties around the manor. On the third landing, Daryl paused. A group of four men were moving down the hallway away from him, each one holding an assault rifle. One glanced over his shoulder at Daryl and slowed in his steps. Daryl dropped his eyes to the gun the man was holding, then deliberately turned and made his way down the stairs. Maggie had paused on the next half landing, looking up at him. When Daryl pulled up alongside her, she gazed at him, visibly weighing whatever it was she was thinking of saying. She started down the stairs again, trailing one hand on the polished railing.

"…Rick saved us, you know," she stated quietly. "My dad, my sister, and me. I wasn't particularly grateful at the time, but I am now."

Daryl eyed her, then lowered his gaze to the carpet running down the stairs. Curiosity slowly got the better of him.

"What happened?" he asked in a low voice. Maggie grimaced.

"Our neighbor was a greedy son of a bitch. He wanted our farm, and Dad wouldn't sell. Bastard bribed the bank into demanding the rest of our outstanding debt. Told them he'd give them a quarter of what the land was worth. The bank took the bait, called in Dad's debt, and when we couldn't pay…" Her expression darkened. "It was off to the block for us."

Daryl's fingers twitched. He ground his teeth. _Fucking bastards gaming the system_, he thought viciously. _They didn't even do anything __**wrong**__. Can't anyone live peacefully in this fucking country?_

Maggie continued, her grip tightening on the railing. "Mom…didn't make it past the holding cells. She couldn't stand the idea of…being owned." Maggie closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling and exhaling slowly. "They left her in the cell with us. For hours."

Fuck. Daryl's stomach turned. He didn't bother to ask how the woman had taken herself out of the picture. Whatever her method was, it wouldn't have been pleasant. And with her husband and two children in the same cell…

He swallowed hard. "How long ago was this?"

Maggie took a moment to respond, her eyes shadowed with remembered hatred and sorrow. She cleared her throat. "About three years ago. The second the three of us went up on that auction block, Rick swept in and bought us."

Daryl slanted a sideways look at her. "And you didn't take it well?"

Maggie's lips quirked upwards. "I punched him in the nose."

Daryl snorted a startled laugh and came to a stop, one foot resting on a higher step than the other. He looked at her incredulously. "How did that go over?"

"I thought Michonne was going to kill me, but Rick just shoved a handkerchief up his nose to stop the bleeding and said, 'Yer a good thot.'" When Daryl laughed despite himself at her impression, she smiled. "I'll never forget it. I thought at the very least he'd Pacify me."

_I know the feeling_, Daryl mused silently. "I heard some lords like them 'feisty.'"

She glared at him, the smile dropping off her face. "Look. I get it, okay? I do. I've been there. But everything you think you know about Rick is wrong. He is _not_ a stereotypical lord."

Daryl cut his eyes away. "He ain't never tried to…"

"_Never_," came the instant, vehement reply. Daryl frowned at the stairs and nodded. After a moment, they both continued down the last flight of stairs. The instant they hit the ground floor, the scent of eggs and breakfast meat wafted out of the kitchen to greet them. They stepped into a bustling world of organized chaos. Several people were filling plates from platters piled high with eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, and waffles, talking loudly as they did so. Some of them grabbed a second plate to cover theirs with and headed straight back out of the kitchen, while others spilled out into the ludicrously large attached dining room to the right of the kitchen. Just as they were the night before, Hershel and Glenn were seated at the huge kitchen table. Beth sat across from her father by the window, a notebook at her side. A woman with short, graying hair was manning the stovetop, scrambling additional eggs for any latecomers. She looked up as Daryl and Maggie entered the kitchen. Maggie nodded to her as she passed, heading straight to Glenn's side.

"Daryl, meet Carol," she called out after giving her husband a brief kiss on the cheek. Glenn shifted against her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Carol turned to him, wiping her hands on a cloth. She held one out. "You're the new one, huh? Like she said, my name's Carol." When Daryl clasped her hand, she pulled it in and squeezed tightly. She smiled rigidly. "I do a lot of the cooking around here. As fair warning, do not ever call me Cook. You got it?"

"Got it." Daryl was not about to ask why she had an issue with that name. She nodded shortly, released his hand, and gestured at the table.

"Feel free to eat. You only get something hot for breakfast and for dinner, so enjoy it while you can. You guys can fend for yourself for lunch." With that, she turned back to the stove. Daryl gazed at her back, inexplicably fighting back a smile. Something about her no-nonsense attitude calmed him, making him feel less like he'd wandered into a strange world full of sunshine and roses.

Before Daryl could sit down, Beth jumped to her feet and rushed over to him.

"Wait! While we have a second, I want to take your measurements." She grinned. "I'm sure you don't want me to wrap a tape measure around your waist after you eat."

"Uh." Daryl blinked. He gingerly set his plate from last night down on the counter, then winced when Carol, without looking, swept it up and placed it in the sink. He shifted away from her, focusing his attention on Beth. "Alright."

Beth shooed him back into a corner and set her notebook down on an empty counter. She flipped to a new page, dug a tape measure out of her pocket, and stuck a pencil behind her ear. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she spun him around and ran the tape across his back. She dotted the numbers down in her book with quick, efficient strokes, and she moved on to the next measurement. Daryl stood uncomfortably, allowing the young woman to manipulate his limbs as she saw fit. She was remarkably businesslike about the entire process, never lingering or teasing. When she finished writing down the last measurement, she nodded to herself.

"We should have a fair bit of stuff that will fit you better than what you've got on right now," she mused. "I'll have it taken to your room, and I'll get to work on your uniform."

Daryl stiffened. "My uniform?"

Beth smiled up at him and waved her hand dismissively. "It's only for formal stuff, don't worry. I'll keep it classy." She pointed down at his feet. "What's your shoe size?"

"Ten."

Beth nodded. "We've got plenty of those, I think. We can get you fitted for some custom boots later, if you want."

Daryl stared at her. "Why the hell would Lord Grimes spend that sort of money on me?"

Beth giggled. "Because he does it for all of us? You never know when it might come in handy."

Discomfited, Daryl shifted past her and made his way to the table. "Um, maybe. Later."

Unfazed, the young woman gathered up her notebook and headed back to her seat. "Fair enough. At least I have plenty to work with." The moment she sat down, Beth flipped to the next page of her notebook and started doodling. When Daryl saw a shirt taking shape on the page, he averted his eyes.

He grabbed a plate and piled it high with food. As he dug in, he noticed Glenn and Maggie speaking to each other in low voices, Hershel looking on with a fond glint in his eyes. Daryl lowered his gaze to his food and ate quietly. The hustle and bustle of the kitchen swelled and faded as people came in to eat or talk before heading back out. More than a few of them glanced curiously Daryl's way, but none of them bothered him. At one point, the bald black man from the night before appeared, bussed Carol's smiling cheek with a friendly kiss, and settled down between Beth and Daryl. He gave Daryl a once-over, smiled, and held out his hand.

"They call me T-Dog. You're the new guy, I'm guessing?"

Daryl shook the man's hand. "Daryl."

T-Dog nodded. "How're you settling in?"

Daryl shrugged. "Going to take some getting used to."

"Makes sense." He helped himself to a muffin from a basket in the center of the table, then reached out and patted Daryl gently on the back. "You'll be fine."

Daryl's eyebrows furrowed, and he determinedly resumed eating. T-Dog, seemingly fine with being ignored, turned to Beth and easily struck up a conversation with her. Daryl let the idle chatter wash over him. Nobody sounded stressed or particularly unhappy here. Maybe it was just because the lord wasn't infecting them with his presence, but Daryl could feel his muscles slowly relaxing in the warm, homey atmosphere of the kitchen. Maybe, if he could just continue to avoid Lord Grimes, this wouldn't be too bad.

Just as Daryl was about to relax completely—or as close to it as he ever got—a man walked into the kitchen with his hands over his face. He was wearing a tan, long-sleeved shirt, several buttons on the y neck undone, and dark jeans. Water glistened in his hair and clung to his shirt, as if the man hadn't dried himself properly after showering. Daryl's eyes widened when the man stopped rubbing his face and finally lowered his hands.

_Grimes_.

The lord blinked blearily into the light of the kitchen, his blue eyes bloodshot. He made his way over to the table and dropped heavily onto the bench on the other side of Daryl. Daryl stared at him as the nobleman ground a palm into his eye. Eventually, Lord Grimes seemed to notice the staring, and he lowered his hand to look at Daryl. His eyes were blank.

"The fuck are you wearing?" Daryl blurted out. Rick was a fucking lord with hundreds of acres of property. What the fuck was he doing in a cheap shirt and worn jeans? Rick blinked at him.

"Clothing?" he answered slowly. Behind him, Carol sighed. She poured a cup of coffee and brought it over to the nobleman, lifting his hand and wrapping it around the mug before she let go. Rick obediently began to drink it, closing his eyes as he did so. Carol leaned close to him.

"I'm amazed that you're even up," she murmured in Rick's ear. The nobleman grunted. Straightening, Carol looked over at Daryl with wry amusement in her eyes. "Don't even bother talking to him until he's had at least one cup of coffee. It's like talking to a semi-coherent wall."

"Shut up," Rick muttered. He took another sip of coffee and sighed. "I love you."

Carol smiled and lifted an eyebrow at Daryl as she turned away. "See?"

Rick mumbled something incoherent into his mug, eyes still closed. Daryl watched him for a long moment, then swept his gaze around the room. Everyone was still talking, touching each other, laughing. They were just as comfortable now as they were before Rick even showed up. Daryl leaned back, bracing his hands on the table. How was this possible? Even the people drifting through the kitchen simply nodded respectfully at Rick and continued on as if nothing had changed. In the midst of his confusion, T-Dog elbowed him gently in the side.

"You okay, man?"

Daryl glanced at T-Dog, then shook his head. This shit couldn't be faked. Nobody would go this far out of their way to give Daryl a false sense of security. He wasn't that important. The only explanation was that everyone he'd seen in this household was genuinely comfortable around Rick, despite the fact that he owned them. They teased him, but they were loyal to him. Maggie even said that she'd punched him, and Rick had let her off with a _compliment_.

"_Rick saved us."_

Had he done the same for all of them? Deliberately buying people who'd been wronged by the government? Distantly, Daryl recalled the dark anger on Rick's face as the man listed his reasons for buying him. That hadn't been faked, either. Lips tightening, Daryl resolved to question the other people in this manor. What kind of lord pulled a white knight routine like this and actually got people to buy into it?

Rick set his empty mug down and sighed, slowly peeling his eyes open. He turned and gave Daryl a slow, considering look.

"How'd you sleep?"

Daryl blinked. "Bed was too soft."

Rick frowned. "Too soft? Do you need another mattress?"

"I…no." When Rick continued to frown at him, Daryl awkwardly waved his hand. "I'll get used to it. It's fine."

"If you're uncomfortable, I can switch it out for another one."

Daryl thought of his little weapon stowed in his bedclothes. "It's fine. Anything would be too soft after sleeping on the floor of a cell."

Rick hummed, still frowning. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know."

Daryl nodded slowly. He eyed the nobleman's shirt again, picking up on the frayed cuffs. He nodded at it.

"What's with the get-up?"

Rick glanced down at his clothing. "What? It's comfortable."

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "You're a lord."

Rick glowered at him. "Not on my days off, I'm not. I'll wear what I damn well feel like wearing, and it sure as hell isn't those stupid peacock feathers."

Carol came up from behind him and exchanged Rick's empty mug with a full one. He nodded his thanks to her. Daryl watched the two of them quietly, mulling over this new information. Clearing his throat, Daryl turned back to his plate.

"You never did tell me what you want me to do around here," he pointed out gruffly. Rick glanced at him, then looked around the room. After a moment, the nobleman shrugged.

"Ask Carol. Hershel, you heading out soon?"

The older man smiled. "Sure am. It's a good day for it."

Rick nodded, expression softening. "I'll meet you out there in a bit." He stood from the table, mug clutched in his hand. "Carol, thanks for the coffee."

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Rick, you still need to eat something. Coffee isn't breakfast."

The nobleman reached into the basket of muffins and pulled one out, waving it in his hand. Carol nodded with satisfaction. Rick looked down at Daryl briefly, then stepped over the bench and made his way back to the entryway of the kitchen. He paused by Carol, and the two of them shared a look. Her chin dipped slightly. Lips twisting, Rick reached out and patted her gently on the shoulder. As he left, Carol squared her shoulders, scraped the last batch of eggs onto a plate, and began tossing the used pans into the sink. Daryl chewed slowly. _Wonder what that was about._

Hershel slapped his leg, breaking Daryl's chain of thought. The old man climbed to his feet.

"Well, the day isn't getting any younger, and neither am I. I'm off." He smiled at Carol. "Thanks for breakfast."

She smiled at him. "Leave your plate, I'll get it."

"Much obliged." He moved away from the table, limping faintly. Maggie watched him go, then stuffed her last bite of waffle into her mouth and stood.

"'Bout time I got moving, too." She looked down at her husband. "I'm on the wall today."

"I'll walk with you," T-Dog offered. Maggie frowned at him.

"You were working the night shift!"

He shrugged and stood. "I'm only on for a few hours today, no sweat." He touched Beth's shoulder. "Don't get lost in your head again, little lady."

Beth made a face at him. "I'm allowed to, I'm being creative." She straightened nonetheless. "I should head to my workroom anyway. I'll see you all later."

The others moved out, leaving Daryl in a mostly empty kitchen with Glenn and Carol. When Daryl glanced at the young man, Glenn smiled.

"Yes, it's always like this," he answered Daryl's unasked question. "And yes, Rick usually joins us for meals, and no, it's not a big deal."

Daryl set his fork down and leaned forward. "Ain't none of you uncomfortable around him?"

Glenn shrugged. "Not really. Rick takes care of his own. He's not a bad guy."

"That's what you keep telling me," Daryl muttered. He hesitated, then dropped his eyes. "What got you put on the block?"

Glenn snorted. "My boss hated me. Apparently, his wife thought I was cute. Some funds go missing from the ledger, and my boss pins the entire thing on me. Next thing I know, I'm up on the block."

Daryl scowled. "Bullshit. Did he have any proof?"

"His word and his ledger were good enough. The cops didn't ask questions. I'm an Asian in Georgia, after all." Glenn spoke glibly, but something dark and angry passed through his eyes. He shook his head and stood. "I'm going to get going. Let me know if you need anything."

Daryl nodded and watched him leave. Carol began placing covers over the food, keeping it warm in case anyone else wandered into the kitchen. Daryl turned towards her, looking up into her eyes.

"Rick save you, too?" he asked dryly. Carol stilled, hands still resting on a metal cover, its fancy gilt disappearing under her fingers. She kept her eyes on the table.

"He tried." Still not looking at him, she straightened. "He just happened to be too late."

Daryl shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry."

She lifted her chin. "It wasn't his fault. If blame belongs with anyone, it'd be my husband."

"He in jail?"

"Better. He's dead." With that blunt response, Carol leaned back against the counter and folded her arms. "Enough of that. Now, I'm going to cover some house rules with you, since I get the feeling that nobody else has."

Something about her posture made Daryl feel like a little boy waiting for a scolding. He stood up and faced her.

"Only thing I been told is that my door'll be locked until you guys trust me."

Carol nodded. "You won't be able to do much of anything until we trust you. The gates require your fingerprint to leave, and we won't register it with access until we know you aren't going to just run off. While you're here, you stay in sight of somebody unless you're in your room. Within reason, obviously. The top two floors of the east wing are _completely_ off limits. You go in there, I'll see to you personally."

Daryl nodded slowly. "Lemme guess. Rick's quarters?"

Her lips flattened. "It's none of your business what's up there. I'll make it simple. If you see a portrait of a woman with long black hair in the stairwell, you've gone too far. Clear?"

Daryl frowned. "Got it."

"Good." She relaxed slightly. "As for general rules, we mostly just stick to doing what we're good at. Everybody shares the load here. Even Rick. When you _do_ get to leave, you'll either have to be accompanied by him, or you'll have to wear his insignia. If you don't, you'll be marked as a runaway before you get fifty feet, and trust me, it won't be pleasant." She grimaced. "But that's for another day. What'd you do before the police got you?"

Daryl shifted his weight and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He felt a faint flush of embarrassment climbing his cheeks.

"I didn't…do much." _I was an unemployed, shiftless jackass. I'm sure she'd love to hear that._ "Built some stuff for friends and neighbors every once in a while."

Carol tilted her head. "Carpentry?"

"Some." He rubbed his shoulder. "I'm not bad at it."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I think we can make that work. Anything else?"

He shrugged. "I've been known to get a car or two up and runnin' again."

Carol's face lit up, and she smiled. "Wonderful. Dale could always use some extra help in the garage. Glenn helps him out when he can, but it's not enough." Before Daryl could protest, she lifted a hand. "Whatever you don't know, I'm sure he can teach it to you. He's patient." Carol pointed to the open doorway at the far end of the kitchen, which opened into a long hallway filled with windows facing the back yard. "The garage is down at the end of that hall. There's a cloakroom right next to it, and I'm sure you'll find some boots in there."

Daryl nodded slowly. "Alright." When she watched him expectantly, he shifted his weight again. "You…"

Carol lifted an eyebrow. "I…?"

Daryl nodded at the overflowing sink. "You need help with any of them dishes first?"

She blinked in surprise, then let a slow, warm smile spread over her cheeks. "I'd appreciate that very much." Turning to the sink, she turned the water on and tossed a dishtowel at him. "I'll wash, you dry. Deal?"

Daryl nodded shortly and took his place next to her. They began working quietly, and Daryl let his mind wander.

This place wasn't what he thought it would be, but it still wasn't some idyllic little paradise. Everybody seemed calm and happy, but at the same time, there were armed patrols all over the wall and armed men walking down the hallways. Rick was "saving" people, but he still kept them as slaves. He strutted about as a lord in public, and people seemed genuinely terrified of him, but in private, he let his servants talk down to him. There had to be a reason for all of this.

If Daryl could be patient, he was sure he could ferret out the truth.

* * *

Rick climbed the stairs slowly, chewing idly on the last of his muffin. When he passed Lori's portrait, his steps slowed, but he grit his teeth and kept moving. His hands trembled as a bubble of black rage welled up within his chest. Breathing slowly, he placed a hand on the smooth, stone wall and closed his eyes. He forced the rage down, as he always did. He could feel her painted eyes boring into his back, but he didn't turn around. He resumed climbing, grimly proud of himself. Every day, it took a little less time to get himself back under control. He'd come a long way since the days when he couldn't use this stairwell at all, forced to sleep in a guest bedroom instead of his own. He wouldn't ignore Lori. He wouldn't take her portrait down to make his life easier. He wouldn't forget his failure to protect her.

He would not fail again.

Rick breathed a short sigh of relief as he reached the first landing, and he strode down the hallway. When he spotted the open door to Carl's room, he frowned and poked his head inside. His son was nowhere to be found. Rick pulled the door shut behind him, jaw firm. Rick moved a few doors down and stopped outside the nursery. The door was closed. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He nodded with satisfaction. Reaching into his pocket, Rick dug out his master key and unlocked the door. He stepped inside the room, shutting the door behind him.

Michonne nodded at him, sheathing her drawn sword. Rick crumpled the muffin's wrapper and chucked it into a nearby trash can. Carl poked his head out from the adjacent room, spotted his father, and grinned.

"Morning, Dad!" He rushed out, wrapping his arms around his father's waist in a quick hug. Rick smiled down at him. Carl stepped back, eyebrows raised with excitement. "You've got the new guy?"

"Yeah." Rick made a fist and mimed a punch. "He clocked a guard in the head. Knocked him out flat."

"_Awesome_." Carl raised his fists and rocked up onto his toes. "Think he can teach me to box?"

"Maybe. We'll have to see what he's good at, first." Rick looked around the nursery. Old toys littered the floor, from model trains and rocking horses to letter blocks and toy pegboards. Painted clouds floated on the sky blue walls, marred towards the bottom by crayon scribbles. A small bookshelf held various baby books with simple vocabulary and pictures. Three empty plates were stacked on a tiny table near the window. Michonne sat down upon the cushioned window seat, grabbed a copy of Goodnight Moon, and curled up in the corner. When Rick stepped forward and took a closer look at the letter blocks, his smile slipped.

The blocks spelled S-O-P-H-I-A.

Carl followed his father's gaze. His shoulders drooped.

"She didn't do that. I tried to get her to, but…" He hesitated, then smiled. "But I think I got her to actually play with a doll this morning! She didn't just try to give it back to me, and she kind of bounced it around for a minute. And yesterday, she drew with a crayon!"

Rick managed a weak smile. "Did she?"

Carl nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Sophia! Come show Dad your drawing!"

After a moment, slow, shuffling steps came out of the adjacent room. Sophia slowly walked out into the room, her gray eyes and expression blank. She gripped a doll by its long hair, dragging it along the ground as she moved. The little girl stopped in the middle of the room, staring uncomprehendingly into space.

Pain and regret shot through Rick's chest, though he struggled not to let it show on his face in front of his son. No matter how many years it had been, seeing the little girl like this never got any easier. Rick took a slow, deep breath, watching as Carl moved to the girl's side and gently took the doll from her. Carl gripped her shoulders and looked intently into her dead eyes.

"Your drawing, Sophia," he stated clearly. "Go get your drawing. Bring it to Dad."

She stared blankly at him, blinking once every few seconds. After a long, uncomfortable minute, she turned and walked back into the other room. Paper rustled. She came back out, wielding a sheet of paper in her hands. Sophia walked straight up to Rick in her ungainly, shuffling gait, stopped in front of him, and held up the sheet of paper. Rick took it from her, using everything in his power to keep his smile on his face. Carl beamed.

"See? She did that on her own. I didn't have to move her hand or anything," he told Rick proudly. Michonne kept her nose in her book.

Rick looked down at the piece of paper. Sophia had drawn a red scribble, a simple thing created by dragging the crayon back and forth in shaky lines. A parody of a drawing. Rick lifted his eyes to Sophia's. There was no light, no hint of emotion. Her eyes made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to keep smiling.

"Good job, Sophia," he managed. Carl nearly bounced in his pride and excitement, and Rick's heart broke into yet another painful shard. Carl didn't understand. The drawing wasn't the result of Sophia's real mind clawing back up to the surface. It didn't come from some creative well just waiting to be tapped. Sophia had seen Carl draw, listening to him explain what a drawing was, and when he asked her to do the same, she'd automatically tried to reproduce what he'd done. She heard "draw," and she considered it an order. She obeyed.

Everything that had made her human, everything that had made her unique, was long gone.

He couldn't say that to Carl. His son had taken one look at the young Walker, and he'd refused to accept that someone even younger than he was could be permanently stripped of her humanity. Carl had immediately started trying to teach her, insisting that she was young enough to heal from the damage that the Pacification chip had done. He played with her, tried to teach her the alphabet, got her to speak simple phrases. Anything to try and draw out her personality. But the poor girl's mind had been destroyed, and the lessons never took. She might learn a new trick or two, but it was all rote repetition.

And it was all Rick's fucking fault.

* * *

Rick stood towards the back of the auction room, Michonne a reassuring presence at his side. His palms were sweating in the stifling heat, wrinkling the pages of the book of lots that he'd received in the mail. He stared grimly at the stage, watching as other poor souls were sold off. As much as he wanted to help them, he could tell that they'd either given up long ago, or they actually were the violent people that the government was making them out to be. Neither would suit Rick's purposes.

Cloying perfume from the noblewoman next to him clogged his nostrils, and Rick hurriedly moved away, his expression locked into the cold, hard mask that he'd learned to adopt in public. A fat man in a business suit took one look at Rick's face and shuffled away, dabbing at his sweaty forehead with a lace handkerchief. Rick watched him go in disgust.

Up on the stage, the judge looked out over the crowd and called out the lot Rick was waiting for. Carol and Sophia Peletier, wife and child of Ed Peletier, an abusive, psychotic man who'd decided that dealing drugs from his home was a great way to secure a better future for them all. The police caught on, but Ed had flown the coop by the time they arrived. They arrested his wife and child, and when Ed was found dead in a motel bathroom from an overdose, they declared Carol an accessory to the crime just so they'd have somebody to punish for it. After all, the state got its funding from arrests and sales. With Ed gone, why not the family?

Carol stumbled out onto the stage, dressed only in the traditional brown loincloth and a band of fabric wrapped around her chest at a flimsy attempt at modestly. Yet another way for the local government to claim that it was running a classy, sophisticated business transaction. None of the fine, upstanding citizens waiting to bid would want to see a half-naked woman on the block. _That would make everything sordid_, Rick thought darkly. Carol awkwardly climbed up onto the block, looking fearfully over her shoulder. Sophia had yet to come out onto the stage. The judge grimaced and gestured at the guards in the wings. A bloodcurdling scream pierced the air, making the entire crowd jump. Sophia ran out onto the stage, arms hanging limply due to the weight of the shackles on her wrists. Crying out, Carol tried to grab her little girl as she ran past the block, but malnutrition and sleep deprivation had slowed her down, and she missed.

"Sophia! _Sophia!_"

The little girl, completely panicked, continued screaming, and she ran for the far end of the stage. The guards, thinking that they had an escape attempt on their hands, streamed out onto the stage. Five of them surrounded Carol, keeping her trapped on the auction block despite her attempts to push forward. Three of them blocked the exit. Sophia tried to backtrack, and she slipped hard in the sawdust, falling to the ground. One of the guards fell upon her and scooped her up, his grip clearly too hard. Sophia screamed and cried, kicking her legs wildly.

Rick shook himself out of his frozen shock and began pushing his way forward.

"One hundred credits!" he called out desperately, but the judge and the auctioneer couldn't hear him over Sophia's screams and Carol's shouts. Rick kept shoving his way through the mass of people, Michonne actively shoving people out of his way.

Up on the stage, Carol kept shouting, trying desperately to push her way past the guards holding her back. "Sophia! My baby! Sophia!"

Sophia either couldn't hear her mother, or she was too caught up in panic to respond. When the guard holding her against his chest put his hand over her mouth, the little girl bit him, hard. He swore and threw her to the ground. Sophia cried out in pain as she hit the floor.

Rick tried again, now that he was closer to the stage. "I'll bid on them! One hundred credits for the pair!"

They still couldn't hear him. Visibly disgusted, the judge lifted a familiar black remote. Carol spied it out of the corner of her eye, and she screamed. Out in the crowd, Rick yelled out.

"_DON'T!_"

The judge punched in Sophia's code.

Her screams as the Pacification chip activated would haunt Rick forever. He stopped dead in the crowd, horror leaving his jaw slack. She was just a little girl. She'd never done anything to anyone. She had her entire life ahead of her. When her screams cut off, Carol crumpled to the floor, sobbing. A hush fell over the crowd. With effort, Rick forced his expression back into the cold mask he always used, and he forced his voice into a steady cadence.

"One hundred credits for the pair," he called out into the relative silence. He pushed his way up to the front of the stage, fixing the judge with his icy gaze. For once, he let his fury shine in his eyes, and he clenched his fists. The judge paled, and he swallowed visibly. Without looking at the stunned auctioneer, he banged his gavel.

"Sold to Lord Richard Grimes for one hundred credits."

Carol was still sobbing, her face buried in her hands. Sophia sat up, eyes staring out blankly into the crowd. Fighting to keep his face impassive, Rick closed his eyes.

_I'm so sorry_.

* * *

In the nursery, Rick gently handed Sophia's drawing back to her. He lifted a hand to her hair.

"Good job, Sophia," he repeated quietly.

* * *

Daryl closed the hood of the car he'd been looking over and turned to Dale, wiping his hands on a filthy cloth.

"Don't see nothing that needs replacing right now," he admitted, looking down at the blue sedan. "Maybe in a couple months."

Dale nodded slowly from his position on his back beneath an SUV, and he pointed at a sheet of paper hanging on the wall behind the car. "Even so, can you write down what you saw for me? Rick's rich, so if it'll need replacing later, we might as well replace it now."

Daryl shrugged. "His money." He made his way over to the sheet, but he couldn't help glancing at the rest of the massive garage as he did so. The garage seemed nearly as big as the manor house itself, filled with almost every sort of civilian vehicle Daryl had ever seen. Sedans, vans, SUVs, buses, pickup trucks, and even a tow truck, of all things. Towards the back, one tremendous vehicle had a massive, black tarp thrown over it. By its shape, Daryl strongly suspected that it was a military-issue humvee. Patrols and guns were one thing, but an armored vehicle? How paranoid _was_ Rick? After dutifully dotting down the questionable parts he'd noticed, Daryl made his way over to Dale and tapped the older man's foot with his own. When Dale rolled out from underneath the SUV, Daryl pointed at the humvee.

"Goin' to war?"

Dale blinked at him, then laughed. "We've sure got enough stuff here for an army, don't we? Nah, Rick got that for me. Sentimental reasons."

Daryl frowned. "You're a vet?"

"Yup." Dale rolled back underneath the SUV. "I spent fifteen years driving one of those bastards. Don't feel safe without one around." The old man sighed. "Used to be that the government at least tried to take care of its vets, you know. A lot of us…we have trouble keeping our feet under us when we get back. Used to be that that wasn't something to be ashamed of."

Daryl tucked the dirty red cloth in his hands into his back pocket. "Still ain't. You did what you were supposed to do. Not your fault the cards are stacked against us all."

Daryl could just barely see the edges of Dale's smile in the shadows. "True. Maybe somebody should do something to fix that."

Daryl snorted. "Right. Who's gonna do that?"

Dale shrugged. "Somebody willing to stand up for it, I guess."

Daryl took another long look at the covered humvee. His eyes narrowed. _Or maybe somebody with money._ After a moment, he shook his head. Everyone here was living a pretty cushy life, and the government… At this point, the government was a monolith that overshadowed everything. Why would anyone risk anything for a worthless cause? Sighing, Daryl moved down to the next sedan in line, and he popped the hood.

No point in wasting his time dwelling on the impossible.

* * *

The Governor sat at his desk, idly swirling a glass of red wine as he stared at his computer. A trail of smoke curled up from the tip of the lit cigar in the ashtray beside him. Light streamed in from the heavy windows, highlighting the dust motes that swirled in the air. A timid knock sounded from behind his office door. The Governor took a leisurely sip of his wine, swallowed, and tipped his head back.

"Door's open."

The heavy oak door swung open without a squeak, its oiled hinges working perfectly. The Governor smiled. _Little pleasures_. Milton stepped hesitantly into the room, adjusting his glasses anxiously. The Governor eyed his assistant and sighed, setting down his wine.

"Yes? Somethin' you want?"

Milton hustled over to his desk, clutching a sheet of paper in his hands.

"Sir, I just got a report. Lord Grimes has acquired another indentured servant, a Mr. Daryl Dixon." He tried to hand the sheet to the Governor, but the other man simply looked at the paper, looked back at him, and picked up his wine again. "I…would you like me to look into it…?"

The Governor leaned back in his chair. He took another sip of wine. After a long pause, he answered.

"Didn't I tell you to look into all the others he bought?" he drawled, his voice low. "What makes you think that I wouldn't want you to look into this one?"

Milton fidgeted. "It's just that…nothing turned up with any of the others. I wasn't sure you wanted me to waste your time—"

"No, see, _this_ is what I consider wasting my time," the Governor interrupted, leaning forward and placing his empty hand on his desk. "Check up on it. Find out if this one has any connections outside of Grimes' manor."

Milton swallowed. "None of the others did."

The Governor smiled, making Milton flinch. "Doesn't mean that this one doesn't." He sat back, turning his attention back to his computer. "I swear, sometimes I wonder why I bother to pay you."

At that, Milton clutched the sheet in his hands and tipped his chin up. "Because I'm still a free man. Because I've been your friend for years. And because you need me."

The Governor's eyes flicked back over to meet his assistant's. His smile widened, and he tipped his head in acknowledgement.

"What can I say? When you're right, you're right," he replied easily. Milton swallowed again, nodded, and hurried out of the Governor's office. A second later, Milton's hand darted out of the hallway, grasped the doorknob, and shut the door behind him. The smile dropped off the Governor's face. He stared at his computer screen, where a picture of Lord Richard Grimes was staring out at him. Wordlessly, he took another sip of wine and set the glass down. He picked up the cigar, took a long drag, and carefully blew the smoke at Grimes' image. For a moment, the picture was blotted out entirely.

The Governor smiled.

* * *

**A/N:** Feedback is always welcome! :)


	3. Alignment

The kitchen was warm, full of light and swelling conversations. Outside, the sun was just taking the last of its orange rays with it over the horizon, casting the landscaped gardens visible through the windows in deep blues and violets. The leftover heat from the multiple ovens nearby blasted Daryl as he gingerly removed yet another roast from one. Just as the scorching heat started to sink through his oven mitts, he managed to set the heavy tray down on a cloth spread across the counter. Huffing, he stripped the mitts off, flung them on the counter beside the roast, and turned the oven's dial to off. A hearty aroma rose from the still-sizzling meat.

Carol shooed him aside, smiling. "Thank you, Daryl. All that bending over wasn't doing my back any favors."

"'Course." He stood back, watching as she cut into the meat and twisted the knife, checking the color around the blade. The beef was mostly brown on the inside, with the slightest hint of pink. Carol nodded with satisfaction.

"Perfect." When she turned the knife to start carving the meat, Daryl reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder. Carol looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

"Let me take that over to the dining table," he murmured. "They can carve their own damn meat. You haven't eaten a thing yet."

Her lips twitched. "I'm used to waiting, Daryl."

"You shouldn't always have to," he protested. "Let the rest of us do _somethin'_."

Carol shook her head slowly, lips curling upwards. "I don't need you to take care of me, Mr. Dixon."

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, removing his hand from her shoulder. "I know that, I just… You don't have to do everything. You should get to sit down and enjoy your own food before it gets cold."

Carol eyed him, then rolled her eyes and handed him the knife and a skewering fork. "Fine. But just for tonight. I'm not going to let you baby me."

"Ain't babying," he muttered under his breath. He stuck the knife and the fork into the slice she'd made, and then he slipped the oven mitts back on as Carol moved back out of his line of vision. Just as he made to lift the tray, however, a dish towel whipped out and cracked sharply against his ass. Jumping, he swung his head around to stare at her in astonishment. Carol laughed, tossed the towel onto the counter by the sink, and made her way over to the heavy kitchen table. Scowling, Daryl lifted the tray and carefully carried the last dish out to the dining room. Weaving around people while carrying a piping hot metal tray was an exercise in frustration, but at least most of the manor's staff moved out of his way once they noticed him.

As Daryl moved through the dining room, he eyed the other servants. Nobody seemed to care that they were seated in finely upholstered chairs clearly intended to seat nobles, or that they were eating off a polished table that gleamed in the warm, golden light from the wall lamps and a golden chandelier. Many of the platters on the table had been decimated already, and people were rising to carry those plates and their personal ones off to the kitchen sink. New people streamed into their abandoned seats as if on cue. About halfway down the table, Daryl locked eyes with the long-haired brunette he'd seen on the wall his first night. The woman, who'd introduced herself as Karen when he'd bumped into her on his second day at the manor, stood up and cleared a space for his tray in the center of the table. Daryl set it down gratefully, nodding at Karen. She gave him a considering look, as most of them did whenever they glanced his way, and nodded back. Karen picked up the knife and fork and began slicing the meat for the newcomers. After a moment's hesitation, Daryl retreated from the long, lavish dining room and headed back into the kitchen. Someone clapped him genially on the shoulder as he passed, making Daryl stiffen, but he tried to ignore it.

Daryl sighed quietly when his feet hit linoleum once more, and he walked over to an open spot at the table. He sat down between Carol and Dale, casting a quick glance over the group. Beth and Maggie were pressed up against the window on the other side of the table, and they were talking quietly. T-Dog, seated across from Beth, was casually interjecting thoughts into their conversation as he ate. Glenn and Hershel were nowhere to be seen, and a spindly young man with glasses was seated at the far end across from Carol, a pensive, faraway look on his face.

Before Daryl could so much as lift a hand to make his own plate, Carol set one down in front of him, loaded with meat, potatoes, and vegetables. He shot her a dry look, but she just gave him a somewhat smug smile and returned to her own plate. Shaking his head, Daryl dug in.

His mind wandered as he ate. The same people seemed to generally sit at the same places in the kitchen and the dining room; that much had been obvious by his second meal there. Every time, however, there were empty seats at the kitchen table, as if they were being held for people who weren't there, even though the dining room table was packed elbow to elbow. Daryl hadn't met everyone working at this ludicrously large place yet, but he couldn't help but wonder who it might be. Frowning, he took an unthinking bite of seasoned, buttery potatoes. He closed his eyes reflexively as he chewed, savoring the flavor. The flavor almost reminded him of his mother's potatoes, back when she was still healthy enough to cook and they actually had the money for something that wasn't pre-packaged. Daryl exhaled slowly and opened his eyes, staring at the nicked and worn surface of the kitchen table. He let the conversations around him wrap around him like a soft, welcoming blanket. A warm hand settled briefly in the small of his back, bringing his focus back to the present. Dale gave him a quick smile and removed his hand.

"You did good in the garage again today, Daryl," the older man told him mildly. "You've got a good eye."

Daryl lowered his eyes to his plate and resumed eating. "Thanks," he muttered around a mouthful of food.

Dale, clearly sensing Daryl's mood, simply smiled at him and turned to T-Dog, seamlessly joining their conversation. Daryl picked at his food, an abrupt swell of bittersweet longing rising up within him.

How fucked up was it that whenever he'd imagined family dinners as a child, this was what he'd pictured? Soft light, good food, and people swelling with affection for each other. Warmth and happiness. Family. These people barely knew him, and most had only started to warm towards him, and it was _still_ closer to his imagined picture than pretty much any of his meals had ever been. His father, an abusive drunk, had only ever spoiled meals with vitriol when he was awake to appreciate them. Merle, once he was old enough, was usually out getting in trouble with his friends. Daryl's poor, harried mother, before she lost her tentative grip on reality, had always had trouble faking a smile for him even when she did manage to make him something to eat. Despite her best efforts, the warmth and safety he'd imagined were never there.

And yet, eating here in this kitchen as a slave, he'd nearly managed to find it. Fucking unbelievable.

Glancing outside as he ate, Daryl spotted Rick coming in through a thick gate in the south wall. He moved slowly through the growing darkness, stripping off his thick gloves as he went. His bearded face was shrouded in shadows, but when he looked up, his eyes gleamed in the light spilling from the kitchen windows. The nobleman continued his steady pace, eyes locked with Daryl's until he finally moved out of Daryl's line of sight.

Daryl continued eating, waiting quietly. After a few minutes, Rick strode into the kitchen, mopping his face with a towel. He paused by the kitchen sink and washed his hands, carefully avoiding the dirty dishes stacked within the tub. Tossing the towel on the counter, he turned and walked over to the table. When he moved to sit beside the young man with glasses, the boy jerked to his feet, sputtering apologies.

"I—this is your seat! I'm sorry, I'll move. Right now. I didn't—I'm sorry!"

Rick stopped dead and stared at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Patrick, you weren't in my seat. Sit down."

Patrick shook his head violently and gathered his plates. "No, I insist," he rushed out. "I'll just go into the other room. Take all the time you need."

Flashing a weak smile at everyone else at the table, Patrick ran off into the dining room. Rick stared after him, a small frown on his face. Daryl watched him curiously.

_So some of them ARE intimidated by him_, he mused silently.

Sighing, Rick settled down across from Daryl. "Someday I'll convince that boy that I'm not an ogre," the lord mumbled under his breath. Rick made his plate, visibly sulking. Maggie patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.

"I'll talk to him, Rick. He just hasn't spent much time with you, that's all," she reassured him. Rick grimaced.

"Thanks." Rick looked up, locking eyes with Daryl. His frown deepened, and he pointed a fork at the other man. "I don't even want to know what you're thinking. I've never done a thing to that boy. You hear me?"

Daryl nodded slowly. "I hear you. He ain't new, though, is he." Daryl's eyes narrowed. "If I'm the last person you bought, how come he's afraid of you? Ain't he had time to get to know you like everyone else?"

Rick's lips pursed. "I don't exactly get to spend time with everyone equally."

Daryl hummed in reply, eyeing Rick's stiff shoulders. He didn't much like the idea of Rick purchasing someone and then handing them off to everyone else, but with a place this large, he supposed it must happen more often than not. In fact, even with the number of people constantly streaming in and out of the kitchen, he suspected that there were a large number of people working here that he'd never laid eyes on, despite having been here for most of a week already. His routine had changed daily, sometimes helping Dale in the garage, sometimes helping Carol or Beth with household chores, and sometimes helping Hershel tend to the landscaping around the house. Everywhere he went, somebody was nearby, keeping an eye on him. The suspicion grated. What did they think he was going to do?

Rick's routine seemed to change around at random, too. Some days Daryl would see him coming and going, heading outside the south wall for most of the day. Other days, he wouldn't see the nobleman at all. Only one thing never deviated: Rick was always late to meals. Always. He would never turn up until pretty much everyone else had already eaten, and he would usually eat quietly once he did join everyone else. To Daryl, it seemed deliberate; Rick must have known that some of his servants couldn't fully relax around him, but he wanted everyone to be comfortable in his presence, so he showed up anyway. It was a smart move.

In the face of Daryl's continued silence, Rick relaxed and began to eat. Daryl couldn't help but watch him, eyes focused on the way the cutlery flashed in the kitchen's light. Strangely, this was the one area where Rick's noble upbringing always shone through. Rick ate like he was dancing, with light, graceful, purposeful movements. Even using the same, normal cutlery as everyone else, Rick would turn them just _so_, highlighting what little details were etched into their stainless steel surfaces. His meat was sliced into small, manageable pieces, and he would always pause a fraction of a second before eating each one, as if he were showing the other diners what a fine cut of meat it was. None of it even seemed intentional—it was just how the other man ate.

Daryl deliberately cut himself a piece that was far too big for his mouth and bit into it savagely. Rick didn't seem to notice.

After a few minutes of eating quietly, Carol wiped her mouth on a napkin and leaned forward.

"Rick, we're running low on a few things. Would you mind if I ran out to pick some up tomorrow?"

Rick looked up from his food. "Of course. Go right ahead."

Carol nodded with satisfaction, then turned to gaze at Daryl. She watched him in silence for a long moment, making his shoulders tense under the scrutiny. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Daryl snapped at her.

"What?"

"Would you like to come with me? Get out of the house for a bit?"

Daryl blinked at her. "You want _me_ to come with you?" He glanced at Rick, who was gazing at Carol with intense focus. Frowning, Daryl brought his eyes back to the woman next to him. "I don't know nothin' about food."

Carol shrugged. "You don't have to. I'd just like the company, and I figure you could use a break from…" She gestured vaguely at the room, twirling her wrist. "…All this."

Eyebrows furrowed, Daryl turned to Rick. The nobleman gazed at him calmly, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Daryl tipped his head towards Carol.

"You okay with this?" he asked gruffly. Rick's eyes darted between Daryl and Carol, and then he shrugged.

"If Carol is, I'm fine with it."

Daryl stared at him for a long moment. _He trusts me with his people? Alone?_ He turned back to Carol, looking into her sure, confident gaze. Somehow, he got the feeling that she could handle herself, woman or not. He nodded hesitantly.

"Sure. I'm game."

She smiled. "Great. A little before lunch good for you?"

Daryl shrugged. "Ain't got anything better to do. Why not?"

"I like the enthusiasm," she returned dryly. Shaking her head, Carol returned to her meal.

Daryl fiddled with his fork, then glanced at Rick. The nobleman was still watching him, a pensive look on his face. Daryl tensed, waiting for some sort of warning or threat to be on his best behavior when out and about. After all, everybody still seemed pretty suspicious of him. Why wouldn't Rick be just as wary as the rest of them?

To his surprise, Rick merely gave him a tiny smile and went back to his bizarrely graceful meal. Daryl's frown deepened.

What was the nobleman thinking?

* * *

Daryl poked his head hesitantly into the garage, fingers absentmindedly fussing with the hem of his black shirt. The red and gold Grimes family crest was embroidered on the left side of his chest, bright against the dark material. Carol was lounging against a deep blue sedan, and she too was wearing a shirt emblazoned with Rick's crest. When she spotted him, she smiled.

"Ready to go?"

Daryl nodded, and he headed over to the passenger side of the car. He got inside cautiously. Carol settled down behind the wheel of the car, started it up, and waved at Dale before pulling out of the massive garage. She paused behind the front gate and pressed a button on the dashboard. A slit popped open, and a small screen folded out. Carol pressed her thumb against the screen, and on the wall beside the gate, a corresponding monitor flashed green. She gestured for Daryl to do the same, and when he hesitantly pressed his own thumb against the screen, the outdoor monitor flashed green again. The gate automatically opened. Two guards, who had stealthily moved closer to the gate, melted away again atop the platform running along the wall. Carol tapped the button on the dash again, withdrawing the small screen, then put the car back into drive and pulled away down the long, winding private driveway.

Daryl watched Carol out of the corner of his eye. After a few minutes of riding in silence, he decided to speak up.

"Did you register me?"

She glanced at him briefly, then returned her eyes to the road. "Rick did, last night."

Daryl frowned. "So I can just leave whenever I want to, now?"

Carol barked a short laugh. "You're still on probation, Daryl. You were cleared for this little outing, and that's it."

"What if I run off?"

"You'd better hope we get to you before the cops do," she replied seriously. She glanced at him again. "You thinking of doing something that stupid?"

Daryl shrugged, turning his head to stare out the window. Trees rushed by, unbroken by other houses. He idly wondered if Rick owned all this land, too.

"Just trying to figure you guys out," he eventually responded. Beside him, Carol drove in silence, her fingers tapping gently upon the steering wheel.

"Is it so bad, being with us?" she asked quietly. Daryl glanced at her, and her eyes briefly flickered his way. "You seem to be adjusting pretty well."

Daryl shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He admitted grudgingly, "It's not as bad as I thought it would be."

Her lips quirked upwards. "You expected to be beaten every day and starved every night?"

"Ain't that how it usually goes?" he shot back. Her tiny smile faded.

"…Usually, yes." Carol's lips pursed. After a moment, she continued, "I heard about what you said on the auction block."

Daryl blinked. His eyes narrowed. "About how the government is shit? Fuck yeah, I said it, and I fucking meant it." When she simply nodded thoughtfully in reply, he demanded, "What, you don't feel the same way? After what they did to you?"

Carol's fingers slowly clenched on the steering wheel, tightening until her knuckles burned bright white. With no inflection in her voice, she replied, "I want to burn the Governor's house to the ground, and I want him to be inside when it happens."

Daryl stared at her for a moment, then gave her a small, dry smile. "I could get on board with that."

She glanced at him, but she said nothing. They both fell quiet, with nothing but the muted hiss of air moving around the car to fill up the silence. Gradually, the forests and fields beside the road gave way to suburbia, and other cars started making an appearance on the road beside them. Soon, stores began to pop up on either side of them, and Carol finally turned into a large parking lot. She parked in front of a tremendous grocery store, cut the engine, and stepped out of the car. Daryl followed suit, looking around curiously. Average people were milling around, either coming to and from shops, or lounging outside a nearby café with open-air seating. Daryl didn't see anyone else wearing insignias or uniforms. Maybe the area wasn't wealthy enough for people to afford contractors.

As they stepped inside the cool store, Daryl's suspicions were immediately disproven. Two Walkers were browsing the shelves of produce, though Daryl couldn't begin to guess what standards they were judging the products by. A young woman standing next to the dairy section turned as Daryl and Carol walked in, and her eyes caught on Daryl. He watched uncomfortably as she dragged her gaze down his body, and he slowed to a stop. After staring at his arms for a long moment, the woman seemed to notice his attention, and her eyes snapped up to his. Flushing, she turned away. Frowning, Daryl started walking again, and he took up his place at Carol's side. She glanced at him, then moved over to the deli counter. She smiled at an older, portly man in an apron. He smiled back.

"Miss Carol! Always a pleasure," he drawled. A smile broke out under his thick mustache. "What can I do for you today?"

"Same as usual, Harold. I need to put in my order for the next few weeks." She perused the meats behind the glass. "You have anything special in today?"

He chuckled. "As a matter of fact, I just got in a shipment of duck that I'm not sure I can move. You interested?"

Carol's smile widened. "That'd be great, thanks. Can I see a sample?"

He puffed out his chest. "What do you take me for? Of course you can. Just wait here a moment."

Once the man disappeared through a set of swinging doors, Daryl leaned closer to Carol. "If you just came to order this stuff, why didn't you call? Or just order online?"

Carol batted at him, rolling her eyes. "Because I wanted to get out of the house for a few minutes, obviously. What fun is there in ordering everything online?"

Daryl grunted. Abruptly, his shoulder blades began to prickle, as if he were being watched. He glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, the young woman from before was staring at him again. This time, her eyes were focused on his ass. Feeling distinctly like a slab of meat on display, he scowled at her. Once again, the moment she realized that he was looking at her, she flushed red and turned away, one jewelry-bedecked arm reaching up to sweep her hair behind her ear. As she hurried away towards the front of the store, a Walker stepped in to take her previous spot in front of a basket of peaches. The Walker stared at the peaches, its soulless gray eyes processing. Mechanically, it reached into the basket and pulled out one of the fruits, squeezing gently and sniffing as if by rote. Without hesitation, it placed the fruit in its basket and repeated the process. Daryl shook his head.

"Wonder what the hell that Walker's owners were thinking," he muttered. Carol turned to face him, frowning. He nodded at the Walker in question. "Everyone knows they can't think. It's just as likely to come back with somethin' rotten as somethin' ripe."

Carol's jaw tightened, and she turned back to the deli counter, tapping her fingers.

"You don't know that," she replied in a tense voice. "I've heard that some can be taught to speak if you train them long enough."

"Yeah, like parrots," Daryl scoffed. His lips curled in disgust. He could still remember the first time a Walker had made the mistake of wandering into his podunk little town, back when he was just a kid. One of the kids had taken it aside and tried to teach it simple phrases, stopping it whenever it tried to leave and get back to whatever errand it had been sent on. It had eventually started repeating the phrases, just to please the child harassing it. Other kids got in on the gag, teaching the Walker to say raunchier and nastier things in its emotionless voice. Unfortunately for the Walker, a group of extremely drunk rednecks had then come outside to see what the fuss was about. It hadn't ended well for the Walker. To this day, Daryl could still remember the way it hadn't made a peep or changed its expression, even as the group beat it to death. It just…took it.

"Maybe they can be fixed, then," Carol insisted quietly. "It's _possible_, Daryl."

Daryl shook his head, his mind still caught on that Walker from his past. "They might as well be dead inside. Ain't nothing going on in there, not even basic survival inst—"

"_Shut up_, Daryl."

His mouth clicked shut. Daryl abruptly focused on Carol's face, taking in the veins standing out in her jaw. On the counter, her hands had curled into fists. She turned her face away from him, and a swell of guilt rose up in his chest.

_Fuck, who got Pacified?_ Hesitantly, he reached out to touch her shoulder, but he let his hand drop before it could make contact. He shifted his weight.

"Carol…"

"Ah, here we are!" The jovial butcher returned from beyond the swinging double doors, a packaged fowl in his hands. Pointedly ignoring him, Carol leaned over the counter to look closely at the duck as he set it down. With deft hands, the butcher unwrapped the large duck. His chest puffed up with pride. "Finest duck you'll see around here, Miss Carol, or I was born a liar. Got more than fifty pounds of these in the back freezer, just came in yesterday. My buyer for them bailed on me, that motherless son of a bitch."

Despite the tension in her face, Carol managed a smile for him. "It looks great, Harold. Ship them all to the Grimes manor for me, will you?"

Harold grinned. "You'll have 'em before dinner, Miss Carol. Want your usual vegetable, fruit, and dairy orders, too?"

"Yes, thank you." Carol gently slapped the counter, still holding her smile. "I'll see you around, Harold."

"You're welcome anytime," he replied fondly.

Daryl followed Carol as she moved over to the cashier at the front of the store. After a brief explanation of her order, the cashier punched a few numbers into a small, electronic pad, then gestured wordlessly at a digital pad next to the conveyer belt. The pad had a slot for a credit card to be swiped, but Carol simply pressed her thumb against the screen. A light flashed, and when she pulled away, the screen displayed, "Transaction approved." The cashier stripped off the receipt once it finished printing, and she handed it to Carol with a small smile.

"Thank you for your patronage," the cashier said quietly. Carol nodded shortly and moved away.

Before she could head out the front door, Daryl gently grabbed her arm.

"Carol, I'm sorry," he apologized softly. "I didn't know."

She took a slow, steadying breath, then smiled weakly at him. "I know. It's alright."

Daryl shifted his weight, letting go of her arm. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "If you don't mind, who…?"

Her expression darkened for a moment, and she shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Alright." He followed her as she walked to the front door, eyebrows furrowed. _When she said that Rick tried to save her…was this what she meant?_

When they stepped outside, the hot Georgian air swept around them, startling after the coolness of the grocery store. On their way to the car, however, the young woman from before, who'd been hovering near the door, approached Daryl with a smile.

"Excuse me, sweetie, but is your owner anywhere nearby?" Her voice was surprisingly low, despite her small frame. She smiled at him, coyly patting down her hair. "If you have a minute, I have an awfully big backseat in my car."

Daryl stared at her incredulously. This woman was _propositioning_ him? Why the hell would she do that?

Huffing quietly, Carol stepped up beside Daryl. She tapped the crest on her shirt.

"Do you not see this?" she asked sarcastically. "Do you have any idea who we belong to?"

The young woman glanced at Carol dismissively, but her gaze did catch on the Grimes family crest. She blinked at it for a moment, and then her eyes widened, and she took a step back, palms raised.

"I'm sorry," she hurriedly apologized. "I knew you were property, but I didn't realize…" She swallowed. "I'll just be going now."

With that, the young woman darted away, sundress fluttering in the still summer air. Muttering to herself, Carol opened the driver's side door and sat down. After a stunned moment, Daryl got in as well. He turned to Carol as he put on his seat belt.

"The hell was that about?"

Carol lifted her eyebrows. "You don't know?"

Daryl frowned. "Know what?"

Sighing, Carol started the car and put it in reverse. She braced her arm on Daryl's seat, twisted around, and carefully backed out of her spot. She straightened up, slipped the car into drive, and took them out of the parking lot.

"A lot of people assume that…well, that anyone who's been made property is up for a good time with anybody who asks, at least if their owner isn't around," she told him ruefully. "Pretty as you are, you'll be getting a fair bit of that."

Daryl's jaw went slack for an instant before he clicked it shut again. "What—I'm not _pretty_. The hell are you talking about?"

Carol snorted and gave his biceps an eloquent look. "You are. Trust me. And unfortunately, most people think that anybody good-looking is probably a sex slave. You'll need to be careful."

He huffed, folding his arms over his chest. "I can protect myself."

"And because we belong to Rick, you defending yourself isn't as big of an issue." She glanced at him. "You know that normally, there'd be a legal battle if you fought back against someone in self-defense, right?"

Daryl stared at her. "But…wealthy assholes use contractors as bodyguards all the time."

"That's for the _owner's_ defense, not their own. As property, we don't have the right to defend ourselves." Carol grimaced. "But people are so afraid of Rick and his mountain of lawyers that one glance at his crest is enough to send most of them running."

A sick feeling settled in Daryl's stomach. "But you're saying that nobody else is that lucky."

Carol nodded grimly. "Yeah, that's what I'm saying."

Daryl closed his eyes briefly. He'd known what kind of people bought so-called criminals as contractors, and he'd seen Walkers and a few contractors over the years, but there were very few of either in his tiny hometown. He'd always assumed that their bad treatment came from their owners, not the people who placidly accepted what happened to their peers. His stomach twisted—several people probably thought they were even being progressive by offering to sleep with contractors. Or just drawn by their appeal as delinquents.

And they couldn't even defend themselves from strangers? That bit of sadistic truth had skipped him by.

"But Rick… He steps in if you have to stand up to someone if he's not there?" he asked gruffly.

Carol smirked, still facing the road. "With a vengeance."

Daryl chewed that over quietly. He still didn't get why Rick would even care. If the rest of the world couldn't give a shit, why would any man buy people and then protect them?

* * *

Later that afternoon, Daryl was still thinking about the strange lord who'd purchased them all. He walked along the bushes lining the side of the manor, spraying them liberally with a hose. Mist from the spray occasionally wafted over his skin, carried by the gentle breeze that had picked up. A clang from behind him brought his head up. The small gate leading out the south wall had opened, and Hershel limped through it. The old man spotted Daryl, and, smiling, he made his way over to him. Daryl set the hose down quickly and wiped his hands on his jeans. He nodded at Hershel's leg.

"You alright?"

Hershel chuckled softly and patted his own knee. "I've been worse. My leg just doesn't like it when I overdo it." He winked. "Do me a favor? Don't tell my daughters that I said that."

Daryl's lips quirked up into a half-smile. "They babyin' you lately?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Hershel replied dryly.

Daryl shifted his gaze to the gate. "What're you doing back there?"

"Helping Rick with his little garden." When Daryl snapped his gaze back to him in surprise, the old man chuckled. "What'd you think he did back there?"

Daryl shrugged uneasily. "Not gardening, that's for damn sure." He hesitated.

Hershel shifted his weight to his good leg. "What's troubling you, son?"

"Can you…" He trailed off, then firmed his lips and lifted his jaw. "Will you take me out there so I can see him? I got something to say to him."

Hershel gave him a once-over, then smiled. "I think we can arrange that. It's probably a bit overdue." He turned and started limping back to the gate. Daryl felt a spike of guilt.

"If you're not feeling well, we can do it another time," he tried. Hershel waved him off.

"No time like the present, son." The older man gave him a faintly concerned look. "Just…go easy on him, alright? Rick's a good man."

Daryl grunted in reply. Together, they walked down the stone path leading to the gate, passing the landscaped flower gardens dotting the manor's backyard. When they reached the gate, Hershel pressed his thumb against the monitor on the wall. The gate obligingly swung open. Hershel stepped aside, gesturing for Daryl to walk through the opening. Once he did, however, Hershel stepped back and let the gate close with him on the inside. Daryl looked around, then frowned.

"Hershel?"

The older man chuckled. "You can find him on your own, I'm sure. Don't do anything stupid." He pointed at the wall patrol guards who were heading their way as he spoke. "Remember, be nice."

Daryl watched incredulously as Hershel turned and limped away, heading for the house. He looked up at the guards, who were clutching their impressively large guns. Nodding to himself, Daryl turned to face the small vegetable garden set back from the wall. Sure enough, Rick was back there on his knees, carefully tending to his little garden. Wiping his hands on his pants once more, Daryl strode over to him. He stopped on the opposite side of the plot and looked down at the other man. Rick didn't look up.

Daryl took the opportunity to study the other man. Despite the gray in his beard, Daryl got the sense that Rick was around his age, give or take a few years. His muscles bunched and relaxed under his long-sleeved shirt, spotted with dirt and soaked with sweat. His face had tanned in the summer sun, and his nose was faintly red. Daryl's lips flattened.

"So, what, am I supposed to like you because you don't treat us like shit?" he asked darkly, deciding to cut to the chase. Rick paused and looked up, seemingly unsurprised to see Daryl in front of him.

"Nobody ever said you had to like me," the lord replied mildly. Daryl scowled.

"All I hear day in and day out is what a good man you supposedly are. Coming from slaves about their slaveowner, you might understand why I'm suspicious." Daryl's fists clenched. "Exactly what does a man have to do to win loyalty that strong?"

Rick looked at him thoughtfully. "What do you think I did?"

Daryl ground his teeth in frustration. "If I knew, I wouldn't be _askin'_, would I?" He flung out a hand, gesturing wildly. "All I know is that you keep buying people who got fucked over by the government, but it's not like you're setting them free or nothin'! You take care of them, I guess, but we'd all still have rights if you fucking let us go."

For the first time, Rick actually looked uncomfortable, his eyebrows knitting together. He looked down at his crops, then back up at Daryl.

"It's…complicated." He winced faintly. "I know that sounds like a cheap answer—"

"Damn right it does," Daryl snarled.

"But it's the best I can give you right now," Rick finished. He frowned. "I do my best to make sure that nobody feels like…like property."

"Even though they are." Daryl scowled. "What the hell is it that you people won't tell me? How am I supposed to just buy this white knight routine of yours?" He jabbed a finger at Rick. "No matter how you spin it, you own all of us. Our fucking lives are in your hands. And you own a _lot_ of us. What, do you get off on 'rescuing' people? Do you _like_ owning people?"

Without warning, Rick leapt to his feet, his features contorting with rage.

"I do NOT enjoy owning people!" he roared savagely. His fists clenched within his heavy gardening gloves. "It makes me _sick!_" His voice dropped an octave, and his eyes narrowed. "Don't you _ever_ accuse me of that again."

"Or what? You'll beat the shit out of me?" Daryl pressed. Rick inhaled and exhaled powerfully, his nostrils flaring with each breath. The lord clenched and unclenched his fingers. He breathed out slowly through his mouth, straightening his fingers in a visible attempt to keep from balling them up again.

"Stop provoking me, Daryl," he growled. "You can push and push, but it's not going to turn me into the sort of man you think I am."

Daryl eyed the nobleman, taking in his still-visible fury as Rick wrestled it down. He glanced over his shoulder at the wall, where two different guards were watching him, guns at the ready. He turned back to Rick, whose eyes had never once flickered up at the people tasked with his protection. Slowly, Daryl slipped his hands into his pockets and narrowed his eyes.

"If you hate it so much, why do it? Why keep buyin' people?"

Rick closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, disgust filled his face, but somehow, Daryl didn't feel like it was directed at him. Rick heaved a heavy sigh and squatted back down.

"Because sometimes, you have to do what makes you sick if it's for the greater good," the nobleman replied grimly. "Everyone makes sacrifices. Mine are the least of them."

Daryl stood there in silence, watching the other man as he returned to tending to his little plot, tugging gently but firmly at weeds. Sighing, Daryl sank to his own knees in front of the garden. When Rick's eyes flicked up at him, Daryl shrugged.

"You weedin'?" Rick nodded slowly. Daryl spread a hand out over the plants in front of him, palm up. "Anything you want me to focus on in particular?"

Rick stared at him for a long moment, then dropped his eyes to the small mound of weeds beside him. He plucked one off the top, with bulbous leaves and thick, red stalks, and he handed it to Daryl.

"Get all of these. None of my crops look like that," he replied brusquely. Daryl nodded shortly and started pulling at the weeds, careful to get at the roots. Rick watched him for a moment, then resumed working on his side of the garden. The two weeded in silence for a while, the sun slowly sinking down towards the horizon. Just as Daryl shifted further down on his side of the garden, a glove flopped onto the ground next to him. Daryl looked up, but Rick was steadfastly ignoring him, now pulling weeds with his left hand and balancing his weight on his right. Without a word, Daryl slipped the warm glove over his right hand, and he went back to work.

* * *

Three days later, Rick was back at his little garden, gently disturbing the soil between his crops with a small spade. Soft footsteps approached him through the well-trimmed grass. Rick nearly ignored the sound, absorbed in his mind-clearing work, but the even gait of the other person suddenly sank in. He tensed, looking up warily. Daryl gazed down at him, his face impassive. He was slowly wringing a pair of gloves between his hands.

A bead of sweat ran down Rick's back. Was Daryl here to accuse him some more? Did he come outside to point out more ways that Rick was a sad excuse for a decent human being? Rick's jaw clenched, his teeth aching dimly from the pressure. The worst part was that he couldn't even _defend_ himself to this man. From Daryl's point of view, Rick was a monster. A kind one, but a monster nonetheless. Why _shouldn't_ he distrust the man who _owned_ him?

At least Daryl seemed to be getting along with the others. Even Rick had no real problems with Daryl; the other man's antagonism was a relatively good sign. If he'd turned out to be a pushover, Rick would've spent his money and compromised his values—_again_—for nothing.

The other man's continued silence caused the muscles in Rick's shoulders to stiffen. Taking a measured breath, Rick went back to his digging. He waited apprehensively for Daryl to speak.

Instead of saying anything, Daryl settled down on the other side of the vegetable garden and pulled on his gloves. Wordlessly, he resumed his weeding from a few days ago. Rick's hands paused, and he stared at the churned earth in front of him. _Why didn't he…? _His eyes flicked up, briefly meeting Daryl's before the other man lowered them again. Rick exhaled slowly through his nose, wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, and nodded at Daryl. Despite having his eyes turned away, Daryl gave him a short nod in response.

Rick felt the corner of his mouth pull up into a slight smile.

* * *

Sighing, Daryl set down a stack of papers on a small table flush up against the wall next to a locked door. He frowned as he straightened, mentally tallying the list of chores he'd been asked to do today. By his count, there was nothing left for him to do. Scratching idly at his left bicep, he looked at the stairwell beyond the kitchen, moonlight streaming in through the windowed door on the ground floor landing. Since he had nothing to do, he could technically just head up to his room now and wait for someone to lock his door. His frown deepened suddenly, and he glanced around.

No one was in the hallway with him.

Daryl blinked in surprise. For the first time in the month since he'd gotten here, he'd been left without supervision. There were still lights on in the kitchen, as always, and he could hear the near-constant noise of other servants going about their business, but nobody was coming out to check on him. In fact, over the last few days, they'd grown pretty lax when keeping an eye on him. Maybe they were finally starting to trust him?

A tiny, warm thread of something Daryl refused to identify wormed its way through his chest at the thought of being accepted, and he ruthlessly squashed it. He didn't _need_ their acceptance, even if they all seemed to be good people who cared about each other. Even though they didn't treat him like some worthless, know-nothing hillbilly. Glowering, Daryl ran a hand through his hair and turned away from his stairwell, walking down the hallway. When he hit the spacious grand foyer, he paused, looking up at the massive, threatening chandelier. To his eyes, it still looked like a weapon, ready to be dropped on an unsuspecting home invader's head. Or an army of them.

Daryl shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around the foyer. To the right of the grand entrance were the rooms and hallways he was familiar with. Thus far, everything he'd been asked to help with had been in the west wing of the manor; up until now, he'd been kept busy enough that he hadn't even thought about exploring. To the left, however…

He glanced at the hallway leading to the east wing. After a moment's hesitation, he shrugged and walked down it. Carol had warned him off the top two floors, but that didn't mean that he couldn't explore the ground floor, at least. As he walked, he took in the paintings decorating the walls. Most of the doors he passed were closed; the few that were open revealed a series of sitting rooms, parlors, and dens when he absently poked his head into them. One room gave him pause, and he flicked on the light switch next to the door to see into it properly. A giant pool table took up the heart of the room, with an old foosball table and a few pinball machines lining the dark wood walls. A huge flatscreen TV was hung above a curled wetbar, and a large, overstuffed sofa took up the entire wall next to the door. With a start, Daryl realized that he hadn't watched a second of TV since his enslavement, and he hadn't even noticed the loss. Some part of him had assumed that anyone living in a _castle_ wouldn't even own a TV, or anything of any entertainment value. He frowned thoughtfully and turned off the light, backing out of the room once more.

Daryl headed towards the back of the manor, eventually finding a winding staircase that mirrored his own, down to the windowed door leading outside. He rubbed a hand against the nape of his neck, then decided to walk along the hallway to his left. Unlike the west wing, where the hallway that ran along the south side of the building was lined with windows, here in the east wing, it was lined with rooms that faced the back courtyard. Light spilled out of a cracked door to his right. As quietly as possible, Daryl walked up to the door, lined himself up with the shadowed doorway, and peeked inside. Rick, dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks, was seated on his desk, his back to Daryl. An almost-full bottle of whiskey sat next to him, and he balanced a shot glass on his knee as he stared outside into the moonlit darkness. Rick twisted his fingers absentmindedly, making the soft light in the room catch on the amber of his liquor and bounce off the faceted crystal glass. He took a sip of his drink, ice clinking. When he set it down, Rick tipped his head back, staring up at the moon. The nobleman sighed.

Daryl stepped back, away from the strangely private scene, and briefly pressed his back against the wall. He'd actually been spending a fair amount of time with Rick. Every three days or so, he would help the nobleman tend to his garden, mostly because that's how often the other man would go out back to see to it. They never talked, which should have made everything tense and awkward, but instead was strangely soothing. The rest of the time, Rick was like a ghost, either lost somewhere in the bowels of the manor or driving off with Dale in his black car. The days he left the manor always coincided with days that Daryl wasn't working in the garage; he wouldn't know it had happened at all unless he spotted the car leaving. Today had been one of those days. After a moment, Daryl stepped quickly across the gap and continued down the hallway, leaving the nobleman in peace. More light was spilling out of a set of open double doors. Curious, Daryl stepped inside. His eyes widened.

A tremendous, two-floored library spread out before him in a circle, with two half-moon staircases sweeping up to the second floor. The library, stuffed full of towering shelves full to bursting with books, curled around a wide, elegant parquet floor that gleamed in the light from an antique chandelier. His boots clacked on the floor as he stepped inside the immense room, the sound reverberating oddly. Had this once been a ballroom?

He walked slowly through the shelves, noting the general wear and tear on many of the books. Here and there, a soft beanbag chair was tucked away between the bookcases, inviting a casual reader to curl up and dive into their own little world. Daryl slowly made his way to the back of the library, eyebrows raised. He himself wasn't much one for reading, but a collection like this took even him aback. Maybe he could actually find something interesting to read in his limited downtime when stuck in his room. Just as he reached the back of the library, he heard a faint, indrawn breath to his right. Before he could turn, a body slammed into him, shoving him into the nearest bookshelf. He instinctively grabbed at his assailant, but just as he wrapped his hands around a slender wrist, he felt something sharp and cold press against his throat. He froze.

Michonne glared at him, her eyes shining with fury. She leaned in, katana held tight against the skin just under his chin.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed.

His shock evaporated. Daryl scowled at her. It just figured that he hadn't seen the sword-wielding psychopath since the night he was bought, and when he finally ran into her, she threatened him.

"Nobody told me I can't come in here," he snarled back. "I was told the top two floors were off limits, and the fucking doors were open. Got a good reason why I _shouldn't_ be in here?"

Michonne's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You need to leave. Now."

"Why?" Daryl challenged. "Ain't I got a right to be in here? Or is the library reserved for fucking assassins?"

Still carefully holding the sword at his throat, Michonne took a step back. She jerked her head towards the entryway.

"It's none of your business why," she growled. "Just get out of here. Door's that way."

Suddenly fed up, Daryl took a chance and batted the sword away. He slid to his right as he did so, taking up a firm stance in the middle of the aisle. His fists clenched.

"Not 'till you tell me why I can't be in here," he demanded. "The fuck is going on in this place?"

"It's none. Of your. Business," Michonne ground out through clenched teeth.

Daryl kept his eyes on her blade, which she kept pointed straight at him. "It sure as hell _is_ my business. I fucking live here now. I've got nowhere else to go. And I'm fucking sick of all the goddamn secrecy! What are you people hiding from me?"

Michonne took a sharp breath, either gearing up for a reply or an attack. Daryl shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, ready to dodge if necessary.

A pealing cry erupted from a small room off to the side of the library. Daryl and Michonne froze. The unseen baby continued to cry, its loud wails bouncing off the walls in the converted ballroom. In the dim light of the aisle between bookshelves, Michonne's face darkened. Slowly but steadily, a swell of rage rose up within Daryl's chest. A baby? They were hiding a _baby_ from him? There were _kids_ here?

Did Rick _own children?_ Or worse…were they _his?_ Daryl hadn't seen any Lady Grimes around at all, nor had a wife been mentioned. _Whose baby was it?_

Hands trembling with anger, Daryl spun on his heel and stormed out of the library, aiming straight for Rick's study.

He and the lord needed to have a fucking _chat_.


	4. Trust

The door to Rick's office slammed open under the force of Daryl's kick, banging against the wall and rebounding sharply as Daryl strode through. Rick tensed visibly, his shoulder muscles crisply defined beneath his white dress shirt. Daryl came to a stop in front of the nobleman's desk, fists clenched. Rick slowly turned to face him with an inscrutable expression.

"Something I can help you with?" the lord asked dryly, taking a small sip of his whiskey. Daryl scowled at him.

"You wanna tell me why I heard a _baby_ crying in the fucking library?" he hissed, teeth clenched. When Rick froze, Daryl's fury slipped a notch higher. "Or why that baby would be guarded by your fucking psychotic ninja?"

Rick didn't seem to be breathing. After a prolonged moment, he slowly set the glass down on his desk. The ice clinked. The nobleman straightened in one smooth, controlled motion, and he placed his hand firmly on the desk. He splayed his fingers wide.

"Daryl…" he started in a low voice, eyes on the other man. Daryl took another step forward and gestured angrily over his shoulder.

"Cuz you know, I ain't seen no fucking _Lady Grimes_ walking around anywhere. You got her stashed away somewhere?"

Rick's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. On the table, his fingers were turning white from the pressure Rick was pouring into them. A muscle in the nobleman's jaw jumped, and he shook his head. Daryl's scowl deepened.

"Then whose fucking baby is that?" Daryl's teeth ground together. Just when he was almost starting to _trust_ this son of a bitch…

Rick watched him, his features growing hard and distant. For the first time since they'd come to the manor, Rick looked like the cold, passionless man that Daryl had been introduced to. The infamous Lord Grimes, whom everyone seemed to be afraid of. Daryl clenched and unclenched his fists. Which version of Rick was the illusion?

After a poignant silence, Rick stiffly replied, "She's my daughter."

Daryl took a slow breath. "And who's the mother?" he ground out. The muscles in his forearms twitched as he fought to keep himself from raising his fists. None of the women he'd met at the manor seemed to be afraid of Rick, but what if some were? What if Rick didn't come after any of his servants because he'd already chosen one to service him regularly? Where was she? Did Rick actually keep a woman _stashed away_ in this godforsaken place?

Before Daryl could open his mouth to hurl accusations at the nobleman, Rick cut him off.

"My wife. Lori."

Those sharply bitten off words stopped Daryl's thoughts in their tracks. His eyes narrowed.

"I thought you said there wasn't a Lady Grimes around here."

Rick's lips thinned. "There isn't." He paused for a long moment, never dropping his gaze. "She's dead."

Daryl blinked, his rage ebbing. "…Dead?"

"Two years ago. Right after Judith was born." Rick lowered his eyes for a moment, but not before Daryl caught a glint of restrained fury. "In the hospital, in fact."

Daryl shifted his weight awkwardly, eyebrows furrowed. "But…you're part of the nobility. Noblewomen never die in childbirth anymore," he replied warily.

"Of course not." Rick's voice dropped an octave. When he raised his eyes, they were lit with rage. "The government killed her. For _immoral behavior_."

"For…" Daryl trailed off, his eyes widening. If she was killed right after the baby was born, there could only be one reason for it. All infants were genetically tagged at birth, which would have shown the baby's parentage immediately. "The baby isn't yours."

Rick slammed his hand against the desk, hard enough that his glass jumped. "Judith is _mine_. I don't care what her DNA says. She's _my daughter_." He breathed in and out slowly, a lock of curly hair slipping free of the pomade slicking it back. Rick angrily swept it off his forehead. "They would have killed her, too, you know. The product of an immoral union? They can't see how she would be anything but a _burden_ upon society. Even though I wanted her, they think it's best for any such children to just be _put down_, like they're fucking _animals_."

The sheer hatred in Rick's voice nearly made Daryl take a step backwards, but he held his ground. He deliberately unclenched his fists. "Then how did you get her out?" he asked quietly.

Rick exhaled sharply through his nose and reached up to sweep a hand through his hair. His fingers got caught in the pomade, but he barely seemed to notice.

"I…" He hesitated for an instant, eyeing Daryl warily. "I had a friend. At the hospital. He helped me." His face darkened. "But I couldn't save Lori. I wasn't…"

When Rick trailed off and looked away, Daryl took a step forward. "What happened?"

The nobleman's eyes snapped back to his, and Rick's lips pursed. "Never mind. It's not important," he replied coldly. "All you need to know is that she's my daughter, and that's that."

Daryl frowned. "Look, I'm sorry about…what happened to your wife. That sucks." He couldn't even fathom how Rick had become so attached to his wife's bastard child, but he wasn't going to push on that score. The last vestiges of his previous anger flowed out of him at the reassurance that the child wasn't the result of Rick having some sort of affair with one of his contractors—and at the relief that the man he was slowly getting to know wasn't an illusion—but an equally strong sense of frustration took its place. "But why the hell did you think you needed to hide the kid from _me_? What the fuck did you think I'd do?"

Rick glared at him, then sighed heavily. "Look. None of us knew whether or not you'd actually work out with us here. On the off chance that you didn't, the less you knew about me or my family, the better."

Daryl flinched, inexplicably stung. "Didn't work out here? I knew I was on fucking probation or whatever, but you've considered _selling_ me?"

Rick quickly shook his head and raised his hands placatingly. "No, no, nothing like that. I just…" The lord closed his eyes, aggression abruptly dissipating. Turning to the side, he leaned his hips against the desk and folded his arms over his chest, chin pointed down. He continued in a low voice. "We all want you to stay, Daryl, but…there are things we haven't told you."

Daryl snorted and folded his own arms over his chest. "Yeah, no _shit_."

"Things we _couldn't_ tell you," Rick insisted. He opened his eyes and looked at Daryl. "Not until we knew if we could trust you."

"Trust me not to turn in an illegal baby?" he spat out. "Right, because I'm clearly a supporter of all the government's bullshit rules. I'm the kinda guy who'd rush right out and tell the fucking _papers_."

Rick's gaze sharpened. "You're saying that you support my decision to keep her?"

"Fuck, man, _I_ don't care. I'm saying that I think it's bullshit that the government has control over that at all! That they can just sentence anyone they fucking want to _death_. Your kid, your _wife_…" He took several steps forward, coming to a stop in from of the nobleman. "They've destroyed my life, they took your wife's life, and your daughter is _fucked_. Everyone in this fucking manor has been _ruined_ by this government. So you know what? Yes, I'm glad you found a way to spare the kid's life. What I _don't_ understand is why you aren't doing anything _more_ about it!"

"Like what?" Rick challenged. "What _exactly_ do you think I should be doing?"

Daryl threw his arms up in the air. "I don't fucking know! You're the one with the power, the resources. The _influence_. Sure, your buying people is probably helping a little, but what about all the poor bastards you haven't been able to save? And what'll happen to us if something happens to you? You won't free us from our contracts, so without you, we're still fucked. If you care about us like you say you do…" He ran a hand through his hair and then gestured angrily with it. "What the hell, man?"

Rick slowly straightened up off the desk, his eyes focused like lasers on Daryl. "Is that what you would do, given the chance? You'd fight back?"

Daryl glared at him. "Hell yeah I would, if I thought it would make the slightest fucking difference."

"You'd risk your life for it? The lives of the people you know? The people you care about?" Rick leaned in, intensity filling his voice. "Would you kill or die for the chance to fix our country, if you knew you could make a difference?"

Daryl paused, eyes narrowing. "You're fucking asking me seriously, aren't you? If I were you, with your resources, yeah, I'd fight back."

"But what about _you_, Daryl? As you are now?"

Daryl frowned. "The fuck are you talking about? I'm a piece of _property_. What difference could I make?"

"If you could, _would you?_" Rick pressed.

Daryl shifted his weight again. If he could make a difference in all this, if he could stop people like Maggie or Carol or Dale from being stolen from their lives and sold off to the highest bidder? Yeah, he'd fucking fight. But what could he, a damn near literal nobody, do against a monolithic government like this? Daryl had spent his entire life not being useful to anyone. He doubted that was ever going to change.

But…hypothetically, if he _could_ make a difference…

After a long silence, Daryl nodded grudgingly. "Yeah, I would. I don't see how that could be possible, but…I'd fight, if I could."

Rick gave him a long, scrutinizing look, almost as if he were gazing straight through Daryl to the parts that made up his whole. The redneck stopped himself from fidgeting, meeting the nobleman's stare. Eventually, Rick nodded.

"Good to know." He dropped his eyes, turning his face away. After a long moment, he picked up his glass of whiskey, rolled it gently between his fingers, and tossed the entire shot back. Rick cleared his throat loudly after he swallowed. Still refusing to meet Daryl's gaze, he reached for the bottle, uncapped it, and poured himself another shot. "I know that you don't trust me, Daryl. I get it. You're not an idiot, and I've obviously been withholding some facts from you."

Daryl narrowed his eyes, but he didn't reply. Rick took a long draw from his glass.

"But don't think that just because I was born into money, I don't care about things like Pacification and this contractor bullshit," Rick continued. The nobleman's jaw clenched. "I see people as _people_. Despite how it looks, I would never buy someone just to have sex with them. I don't care what the law says, rape is fucking rape. Are we clear?"

Daryl cleared his throat. "I…yeah. I get it."

Rick grimaced and tossed back the rest of his shot. Shooting Daryl a brief glance, Rick swept behind his desk and rustled the papers on it. He selected a few and held them out towards Daryl. When the other man didn't move, Rick waved them impatiently. Hesitant, Daryl stepped forward and took the sheets. He looked down, noting the stiff parchment and formal letterheads. Frowning, he began to read.

"_My dearest Lady Alberich, I thank you for supporting my cause at the last Meeting of the Lords. To answer your question, yes, I do intend to voice my concerns over the spread of Pacification at the next State Session—"_

He flipped that letter to the bottom and glanced at the next.

"—_The economy of our great state is under peril, and only the repeal of certain Pacification laws can alleviate the pressure we have placed on upstanding citizens—"_

Daryl's frown deepened, and he continued shuffling through the documents. Each one was a letter to some member of the nobility or a politician. Rick was campaigning against Pacification? A small wisp of shame niggled at the back of his mind, but he pushed it away. He couldn't be expected to _know_ that Rick was trying to help people out if nobody ever told him. Lowering the papers, he furrowed his eyebrows and met Rick's gaze.

"Why're you showing me this?" Daryl asked. Rick's blue eyes blazed.

"To show you that you're not the only one willing to fight." Rick's eyes narrowed, and his lips twitched upwards in a humorless smile. "And I'm willing to go to lengths that you might not expect. So just…do me a favor, and stop assuming the worst about me? Try to have some faith in me?"

Catching the strain in Rick's voice, Daryl nodded jerkily. He stepped forward to set the papers back down on Rick's desk. When he lifted his eyes to the nobleman, he flashed him a weak, brief smirk.

"No promises, but I'll try."

Rick snorted. "I'll take what I can get, I guess." He poured himself another drink. Daryl frowned, but he refrained from commenting, a slight curl of guilt settling in his stomach. Rick knocked it back, then stared at his glass with a stony expression. As a heavy silence began to settle upon them, Daryl took a step back.

"I…look. I'm not going to tell anyone about your daughter, okay?" Daryl shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'd never sell out a kid. If…" He trailed off, deciding not to voice the rest of his statement. _If you knew me at all, you'd know that already._ Daryl shook his head ruefully. "Trust goes both ways, right? If you start trusting me, I'll return the favor."

Rick didn't respond, his eyes locked on his empty glass. When Daryl turned away, however, the nobleman spoke.

"I have a son, too." Daryl's head snapped back. Rick grimaced. "He's legitimate, so there are no legal issues surrounding him. He's fourteen."

Daryl bit back his instinctive reply of, _What the FUCK, man!_ Instead, he gritted his teeth and nodded.

"Can't say I understand why you're so paranoid, but for what it's worth, your kids are safe with me." Daryl hesitated. "Does everyone else know about them?"

Rick nodded. Daryl bit back another comment. _Trust, Daryl_, he reminded himself firmly. _The bastard's trying to trust you._ Daryl took a deep breath.

"Well, like I said, they're safe with me. I ain't gonna turn on children," he stated firmly.

Rick finally met his eyes. Something dark and angry lurked within them, but somehow, Daryl didn't think it was aimed entirely at him. Rick's Adam's apple bobbed before he finally replied, "I believe you."

Daryl nodded, looking away and reaching up to rub the base of his neck. He shot a quick glance at the bottle of whiskey. As he watched, Rick's fingers wrapped around the neck of it.

"You planning on getting drunk?" he joked weakly. Rick glared at him.

"Yes. I am."

Daryl considered it, but he couldn't come up with a reply to that one. He rubbed a hand on his pant leg.

"I'll, um." Daryl shook his head. _I got nothing._ Shuffling awkwardly, he turned to leave the office. At the last moment, he glanced back at the other man. Rick was glaring down at the bottle in his hand, looking angry, but not defeated.

As Daryl walked away, he heard more alcohol splash into Rick's glass.

* * *

Rick sipped at his drink, thoughts churning in his head. After a few moments, he set the bottle down and strode over to a small black panel on the wall. He pressed several buttons in quick succession, highlighting the rooms he wanted. Grimacing, he pressed a button for public broadcast.

"I need the council to gather in my office ASAP. Michonne, that includes you," he intoned into the tiny microphone. His voice echoed from nearby speakers in the room. "Put down whatever you're doing and meet me here."

Rick paced quietly in his office as he waited for the others to arrive. For the first time, it felt cramped.

Now that Daryl knew about his kids, they'd have to shorten their time frame significantly. He believed Daryl, but the man could give something away without meaning to, just by virtue of not knowing what was at stake. They'd have to consider telling him everything. Either that, or confine him to the grounds again, just to reduce the risk of him talking to someone outside of their circle. Rick grimaced. Neither option was particularly pleasant.

Telling him everything would be a big risk, and he knew it. They'd only known Daryl for a month. Granted, some people had been welcomed into the fold more quickly, but others had taken far longer. They couldn't afford to make a mistake now, not when they were finally starting to pull everything together. The council had met several times since Daryl had first arrived to discuss his attitude and potential, and so far things had been moving smoothly, but…

But now Daryl knew about Judith. As far as the government knew, Judith was dead. Bob had forged her death certificate perfectly, and he'd filed it just to protect Rick and his family, even though it put the doctor at risk. If the governor or the police were to find out that Judith lived, they'd try to storm in here to take her. Illegitimate children were one of the many banes to a "civilized society," as the papers called them. As long as these laws stood, Judith could never set foot outside the manor's walls.

She deserved better.

Rick came to a stop, and he rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. _I just wish I could've saved Lori, too…_ Impotent rage welled up within him again, and he had to wrestle it back down. _At least the bodyguard who sold us out is rotting in hell,_ he thought viciously.

And Daryl. It had taken every ounce of control that Rick had to keep from trying to strangle him. He liked the man, in a general sense, but his insinuations about the mother of his child had pushed Rick right to the edge. Even after two years, Lori's betrayal and death were gaping, raw wounds in his soul, and he'd always done his best to ensure that no one under his roof felt threatened. To have his wounds dug into and his efforts to be a good man challenged all at once had been like bathing in acid. He understood where the man was coming from, he really did, but it would be nice to have some _faith_ from the man, just once!

Closing his eyes, Rick took a deep breath and forced his anger back into the depths of his mind, shutting it down as he'd learned to do long ago. He couldn't afford to let his bruised pride affect the conversation to come. One of his secrets was out—they had to deal with it and with Daryl now, before things got any worse.

In the midst of his dark, brooding thoughts, Michonne stepped into the room. Her katana was sheathed, and her eyes were hard and worried. When Rick looked up, she frowned at him.

"Rick, I'm sorry," she started, "I tried to convince Carl to stay on his floor, but he wasn't having it. He wanted to take Judith down to the library, and I…I didn't have the heart to say no."

Rick sighed and shook his head. "I'd hoped that our little outing today would've cured his wanderlust, but apparently not."

"A quick trip to the park doesn't really make up for a month of being kept inside and out of sight," she agreed dryly. "He's restless, Rick."

"I know," Rick exhaled. "It's not your fault, and it's not his fault. Neither of you could've known that Daryl would decide that _today_ was the day to start poking around."

She acknowledged his comment with a tilt of her head, lips twisted. "He never did see either of them, though."

Rick grimaced. "I told him about Judith."

Glenn chose that moment to walk in, with Hershel, Dale, and Carol close on his heels. Glenn's eyebrows shot up.

"You did what?" he asked incredulously.

Rick shook his head ruefully. "We have a situation. Daryl found out about Judith. I told him…some of the truth."

Carol frowned contemplatively. "So he knows she's illegal?"

Rick nodded shortly. "He does. And then he went off on me about how I should be doing more to strike back at the government."

Hershel's snowy eyebrows rose, and he limped further into Rick's office. He closed the door behind him and stepped around a stack of papers on the floor by the wall. He leaned against a wooden filing cabinet.

"Did he now?" Hershel asked softly. "That's interesting."

"Do you think he was serious?" Glenn prodded.

Rick nodded. "That's why I called you all together. I think we're going to have to make a decision about him."

Michonne frowned. "What exactly did he say?"

"That if he could make a difference, and if he had the resources that I had available, he would fight. Personally, I believe him."

Folding her arms over her chest, Carol gave them all a thoughtful look. "Daryl's said similar things to me, too. He really does seem to hate the government."

Dale scratched at his beard. "I've gotten the same impression. He does seem like a match, I'm not gonna lie."

"I'd agree with that," Hershel murmured.

"But can we trust him?" Michonne challenged. Her voice was mild, but her expression was tense. "I haven't spent any time with him, but I'd like to know if all of you honestly feel like we can place our faith in him this soon."

Glenn, who'd been quietly pacing with one hand rubbing his chin, looked up. "Every person I've talked to about him has mentioned how angry Daryl gets on their behalf. If he says he's willing to fight, I might buy that. Besides…we don't really have much more time to waste tiptoeing around him. Our training schedule is completely unbalanced. I say we get this over with. He joins us, or he leaves. Now, before he learns anything else."

Carol turned to look at Michonne. "Are you comfortable with us making a decision like this when you haven't gotten to know him yet?"

Michonne tipped her head in acknowledgement. "I'd like to get a feel for him. You all say he's one of us. If we don't have time for him to prove it to me…" She trailed off and looked at Glenn, who grimaced and waggled his hand in a maybe/maybe-not fashion. "I'd like to hear your impressions of him. We should at least hash out what we know of him."

Dale scratched at his beard. "And if we all agree on him?"

Glenn looked up at the ceiling, his expression pensive. "We'll have to move forward. We'll ask him the three questions, and we'll go from there."

Michonne nodded sharply. "How long do you think we have?"

Glenn grimaced. "My reports are telling me that the Governor is cooking up something nasty. We need to start preparing, and it's hard to do that with someone out of the loop."

Michonne shrugged. "Fair enough."

Rick watched them both, then turned to the rest of the group. "Alright. Let's get this done, then." He smiled grimly. "I hope nobody planned to sleep tonight."

Weary smiles flashed in response. Glancing down at his glass, Rick set it down on the far end of his workspace and tucked the bottle away in a cubby beneath his desk. The rest of the council gathered in around him.

Their low voices murmured on into the night.

* * *

Daryl tossed and turned in bed, his conversation with Rick rolling around in his head.

Trust. That's what Rick had asked of him. The nobleman didn't trust _him_, not completely, despite giving him access to most of his home and allowing him out into the world, where Daryl could theoretically make a run for it. What was the man hiding that was so important that he'd hide his kids from the new guy? Was that a nobility thing, or was it Rick, specifically, who was so paranoid? Was he paranoid because of his wife being killed?

Huffing, Daryl threw an arm over his face. _And that wife of his. He said that the government killed her, but…she was a noblewoman. People tend to notice when that shit goes down. How did they get away with it, "immoral behavior" or not?_ He groaned. _And why the fuck do I care?_

The conversation continued to needle him, and Daryl chased it around and around in his head. Trust. Why was it so fucking important to them all? In a general sense, he could understand, but these people were unnaturally secretive. He liked them, but...

He grimaced, pressing his arm more firmly into his face. He legitimately liked the people he'd met at the manor, secrets or not. They were warm and friendly, and they didn't give a shit about Daryl's worthless background. Aside from not telling him what the hell was going on, they treated him like he was one of them. Nobody ever did that, even in his home town, where everyone had been dealt a shit hand in life. What made these guys so different?

Hell, even Rick put up with his shit. He never complained when Daryl joined him by his little garden, even when he accidentally fucked up and tore some roots or pulled out a plant he shouldn't have. Rick took it all in stride, even though he'd never asked Daryl for help. Hell, he'd never asked Daryl for anything.

Inhaling sharply, Daryl peeled his arm off his face and stared up at the dark ceiling, moonlight painting odd pictures on the white plaster. Rick had never asked him for anything, not once since Daryl met him.

Not until tonight, when he'd asked Daryl to have some faith in him.

Groaning quietly, he rolled over and buried his head in his pillow.

Maybe this bullshit would make sense in the morning.

* * *

A loud beeping noise from his door woke Daryl with a start, and he flailed momentarily in his bed. He blinked blearily at the door, frowning in confusion. A previously unnoticed panel on the wall beside his doorjamb lit up.

"Daryl, could you meet me in my office, please?" Rick's weary voice emitted from a hidden speaker. Daryl jumped reflexively.

Cautiously, Daryl shoved his bedclothes aside and got to his feet, walking over to the panel. He leaned to the side as he looked it over, then bit his lip. _Am I supposed to press a button or something?_ _We didn't have this shit in my house_, he mused grumpily. Awkwardly, he waved a hand in front of the panel, and a red light flicked on at the bottom of the screen.

"Uh, Rick?" He leaned down, frowning. The screen had flashed a brief caption on it, stating, "microphone in use." The caption disappeared once he stopped speaking.

"It's important, Daryl," Rick replied. "Please."

Daryl scratched at the top of his head, then shrugged. "Uh yeah, sure. I'll be down in a minute."

The panel went dark. Confused, Daryl decided to skip his usual morning routine and threw some clothes on. As he made his way downstairs, his frown deepened.

Was this about his confrontation with Rick the night before? They'd both been angry, obviously, and Daryl had accused Rick of some unsavory things—or at least, heavily implied them—but he didn't think Rick would try to discipline him for it. His lips twisted. Rick asked for faith? Daryl would try to give it to him.

Daryl made his way to the bottom of the stairs, and he glanced into the kitchen. Beth was sitting at a mostly empty table, nibbling on a muffin. The kitchen was quiet, empty of the usual hiss of frying breakfast meats. As he passed the wide doorway, Dart peeked at the counter and stovetop, but Carol was nowhere in sight. Frowning, Daryl moved on.

After walking down several silent hallways, Daryl reached the closed door to Rick's office. He lifted his hand, hesitated, and then rapped his knuckles against the heavy wood. The door swung open almost immediately.

Daryl blinked in surprise at Hershel, who was leaning slightly on the doorknob. The older man moved aside, gesturing for Daryl to enter. After Daryl stepped inside, frowning, Hershel quietly shut the door. Carol, Dale, Glenn, and Michonne were fanned out around the room, all of them looking tired and rumpled. Rick was stationed behind his desk, his expression stoic.

Daryl automatically narrowed his eyes at the woman who'd pointed a sword at him the night before, and she stared coolly back at him in return. Before Daryl could say anything to her, Rick leaned forward to press his palms flat again the polished wood of his desk, catching Daryl's attention. The others remained quiet. Daryl eyed Rick uncertainly.

"Somethin' going on that I should know about?" he asked uneasily. Rick's lips twitched.

"Yes, actually. And I needed a little help telling it." He nodded at the others.

Daryl eyed them. "And…why is that?"

Rick gave him a once-over, then twisted his lips into a wry smirk. "Because if they weren't here to vouch for me, I doubt you'd believe me." Daryl narrowed his eyes at the nobleman, but Rick just waved a hand. "But first, I have a few questions for you."

Daryl took his hands out of his pockets and unconsciously widened his stance. "Yeah?"

Rick briefly locked eyes with Hershel, then returned his gaze to Daryl's. "How many Walkers have you known?"

Daryl frowned. "Before they were Pacified?" Rick nodded. "I…three. People from my town. One was a sadistic asshole, but the other two didn't deserve it. They were good people."

Rick nodded slowly, glancing at the others. He continued, "Have you ever killed anyone?"

Daryl scowled, clenching his fists. "No, I ain't never killed anyone."

The lord stared at him, blue eyes focused intensely. "If you had to, would you be willing to?"

Daryl paused at that. Slowly, he turned to look at the serious faces around him. These people had welcomed him into their midst, tried to help him adjust to his new life. Even though they'd been hiding something from him, he knew they were good people. Lips flattening into a thin line, he turned back to Rick.

"To protect people? Yeah, I would," he answered gruffly.

The others in the room looked at each other for a long moment. One by one, they nodded. Michonne hesitated for a moment, and then she nodded as well. Rick straightened, leaving one hand upon his desk.

"All right. Daryl, we're going to level with you, but you have to understand something. What I'm going to tell you puts a lot of lives at risk. Once I tell you, you're not going to have many options. Is that clear?"

Daryl's eyes narrowed. "I don't exactly have a lot of options _now_."

"You do, son. More than you know," Hershel put in, his voice soft. When Daryl turned to look at him, Hershel gave him a gentle smile. "You can walk away from us right now, in a manner of speaking."

Startled, Daryl swung his head back to Rick. "You'd free me?"

Rick grimaced. "Not…immediately. I can send you to a safe place to work off your contract. You'd be set free after a few years."

"A _safe place_," Daryl repeated suspiciously. "What, I'm not safe here?"

A thick silence filled the room. After a long moment, Rick lifted the hand he'd rested on the table, stopping when only the pads of his fingers were touching the dark wood. He tapped the desk a few times.

"No, you're not," Rick confirmed quietly. "None of us are."

"Because we're doing something important," Glenn chipped in. Rick tipped his head in his direction.

"What he said. It's important, Daryl, but…it's not something you're a part of. Not yet. You can choose to stay out of it."

Daryl glanced around the room. The lot of them were up to something that put all of them in danger? A light suddenly flicked on in his mind, and his eyes widened involuntarily.

"Are you people _rebels_?" he asked incredulously. When they just looked at him silently, he shook his head. "Are you fucking _crazy?_"

"We're not crazy, Daryl," Carol stated firmly. "We have a plan, and it's a good one."

"You said that if you had my resources, you'd do something about the sick things our government has been doing," Rick added. "Well, I am. _We_ are. And we'd like you to help us."

Daryl stared at him. "Me. What the fuck do you think I'd be able to do to help _you_?"

"People of a like mind can do incredible things, son," Hershel responded. "Everyone in this manor has the same story. Even though we all come from different backgrounds…" He waved a hand at the rest of the room. "We all ended up here, one way or another. Alone, none of us has the skills we need to change our world for the better. But _together_, we just might be able to."

"Every person counts," Rick agreed. "I'm sure you know things that none of the rest of us do. Every little bit can help us."

Daryl looked around at the earnest faces surrounding him. Everything was starting to make sense—Rick's strange questions the night that he brought Daryl home, asking if Daryl wanted his life to mean something. The way everyone constantly kept an eye on him, insisting that trust was key. The level of camaraderie between the servants, and the rapport between Rick and his contractors. The fact that every single person Daryl had met at the manor had been screwed over by the government.

"You've been building a fucking army," Daryl realized aloud. He glanced at each person, but none of them looked away; each person in the room met his gaze calmly. What kind of plan could they possibly have that wouldn't be suicidal? "You're all willing to die for this?"

"A million things could kill you. In this world, bumping into the wrong person could cost you your humanity," Hershel replied dryly. "Am I willing to risk my life for a better world for my girls to live in? Yes, I am. And so are they."

Daryl quietly absorbed that. "And you want me to risk my life, too," he noted.

Rick frowned. "You don't have to, Daryl. I won't ask anyone to fight with me who doesn't want to." Daryl's eyebrows rose at Rick's choice of words, but the nobleman continued. "If you want out, I have a friend who runs a nursing home. He takes in some of the people that don't quite fit in with us here, or who have family members they're worried about, and they help him take care of the elderly. The patients there have all been abandoned by their families." Rick gave Daryl a serious look. "You can still help people, still be useful, if that's what you want. And nobody will ever know that you were a part of this."

Daryl's jaw tightened. "Except your buddy there would probably be watching me like a hawk, making sure I didn't blab to anybody, right?"

Rick shrugged. "It's not a perfect solution, but you wouldn't be the first to take us up on it. At least you wouldn't be in the line of fire."

Daryl took a long, measured breath, and he glanced out the wide office windows. In the early morning light, he could see T-Dog walking along the platform behind the wall. As Daryl watched, T-Dog met up with Karen, and they smiled at each other. They both turned and started back in the opposite direction, each trusting the other to have their back, despite the fact that the only connection they had was this place and their cause. Could Daryl really fit in with that? Could he really contribute to what these people implied was a well-oiled machine?

Could he really have a chance to help make sure that nobody else ended up in his situation? That no other pure souls like Beth or Patrick ended up half-naked and sick with fear on an auction block?

Gritting his teeth, Daryl turned back to Rick. "You ain't just working on taking down Pacification, right?"

Rick met his gaze without flinching. "Daryl, I plan to tear the whole fucking system down. No more auctions, no more contracts, no more slavery, and no more _Walkers_. It's everything, or it's nothing."

Daryl glanced around once more. "And all you crazy fuckers are on board?"

Glenn smirked. "What else are we gonna do, stick our thumbs up our asses and hope society wakes up? Not happening."

Michonne snorted. "Some fucked up people started all this. I plan to make them pay for it."

"As do I," Dale agreed, rubbing at his chin.

"And me," Carol followed, her eyes dark with repressed anger. "They'll all pay for it. Nobody's going through this again, not if I have anything to say about it."

Daryl nodded slowly. Turning back to Rick, he eyed the nobleman and shook his head. "I still think you're all crazy, but…" He thought of the Walkers he'd seen, the children and broken men and women locked in filthy pens, waiting to be sold. His stomach twisted. Tipping his chin up, he finished, "If you really think I can help you put an end to all this…I'm in."

Rick regarded him with a long, intent look. "Even with Merle still out there?"

Daryl flinched internally at the mention of his brother. Merle _was_ still out there, but…Daryl knew his brother. If Merle ever found out about a rebel organization, even if he agreed with them, he'd still sell them out to the highest bidder. He didn't care enough about his own blood to step forward for the crimes he'd committed. Merle Dixon would never risk his neck on a bunch of strangers. Exhaling sharply, Daryl shook his head.

"Merle has nothing to do with this," he decided grimly. "You want me? I'm in. For all that it's worth."

Slowly, Rick's features relaxed, and a faint smile touched his lips. "It's worth something, Daryl. Trust me." He glanced around. "Are we all agreed?"

After a moment, everyone in the room nodded. Apparently satisfied, Rick reached out, extending his palm for a handshake. Daryl eyed it, then tentatively extended his own and clasped it. Glenn abruptly stepped forward and clapped both men on the shoulder, grinning at Daryl.

"Welcome to the Resistance, you crazy asshole." His grin widened at Daryl's glare. "Don't worry, you're in good company."

Grimacing, Daryl released Rick's hand. He kept himself from self-consciously wiping his palm on his pants. "Yeah, sure."

Glenn waved his grumble aside. "We'll add you to the training roster tomorrow. I'll have to introduce you to the other trainers—they'll want to figure out your weapon proficiencies, and…"

As Glenn began to ramble on, Daryl watched him with growing incredulity. The Asian man was never exactly quiet in the past, but Daryl had never seen him speak with this much energy. Daryl glanced at Rick, but the other man simply shrugged. Frowning, Daryl let Glenn lead him out of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl saw Michonne lean in towards Rick, asking him a question. The bearded man glanced at Daryl, then looked back at Michonne and nodded. She straightened, spearing Daryl with a sideways glance. After a moment, she gave him a short, wary nod. Daryl's frown deepened, but he let himself be dragged away.

* * *

As Daryl left, Michonne leaned close to Rick.

"You're sure about this? We can trust him?" She frowned. "You think we can trust Carl and Judith's safety with him?"

Rick glanced at her, then nodded shortly. "We'll have to take it one step at a time, but I don't think he's a threat. Not right now, anyway. We'll just have to keep an eye on him."

"You mean _I'll_ have to keep an eye on him," she returned dryly. Rick's lips quirked upwards.

"Just don't be too hard on him, okay?" he pleaded gently. "Acting like he's seconds away from murder isn't exactly going to inspire his loyalty, you know."

Michonne's eyebrows furrowed. "I was hard on everyone else, too, you know. They all proved themselves to us."

"Well, now Daryl will have a chance to do the same." Rick placed a hand on her shoulder and dipped his head slightly to look her in the eyes. "You know I value your judgment, especially when my kids are concerned. Just give him a chance, okay?"

Michonne tipped her head in acknowledgement. She raised a hand to finger the hilt of her sword, smirking faintly.

"He'll get his chance."

Despite his exhaustion, Rick found a small smile working its way onto his face. "You aren't going to cut his arms off or anything, are you?"

Michonne smirked. "Only if he gets feisty."

Rick snorted. Michonne's smile faded slowly, and her eyes unfocused.

"I won't let any harm come to those kids, Rick," she stated quietly. "I won't."

Rick gave her shoulder a brief squeeze and dropped his hand. "I know, Michonne. I know."

* * *

Milton fiddled absentmindedly with his gloves as he looked at the Walker—he shook his head fiercely—at the naked Pacified on the table in front of him. Its right arm ended in an inexpertly sutured stump, and a wire mesh covered the Pacified's shaved head, collecting signals from its brain and transmitting them to the monitor standing beside the table. Milton readjusted the helmet on his head, checked to make sure that his thick apron was in place over his scrubs, and stepped forward, glancing briefly at a nearby camera to check if it was recording. Spotting the red light, he nodded to himself.

"May 16th, 2030 hours, trial specimen number twelve," he stated clearly. "Subject is male, 175 centimeters tall, 84 kilograms. Time since Pacification is approximately twelve days."

Milton stepped past the Pacified and snagged a trolley laden with tools. He pulled it over to the table, mentally tallying the items at his disposal. He looked over at the Pacified, which was staring blankly at the ceiling. Milton's lips pursed for a moment.

"Pacified, do you hear me?" He watched the monitor as he asked, watching as the brain sluggishly lit up. The Pacified's eyes remained pointed where they were, but it gave him a slow nod. "Good. When I tap your hand, I want you to blink. Do you understand?"

Another nod.

Milton paused for a moment, then tapped the Pacified's hand. It blinked obligingly, and the monitor lit up as sensation registered in the brain. Milton slowly shifted his hand, and he gave the Pacified a short tap on its bicep. The monitor lit up once more, but the Pacified didn't blink.

"Very good. The subject understands prompts," he related to the camera. "The sensation of touch has survived the Pacification process."

Having covered his baseline, Milton picked up a scalpel. "I'm going to cut you on the hand."

The Pacified didn't respond. Milton lowered the scalpel to its skin and applied pressure, slicing a fine line in its hand between the tendons of its fingers. Blood welled up. The monitor lit up, but the brain signals matched those created by a simple tap. Nodding contemplatively to himself, Milton wiped off the blade and set it aside.

"Subject displayed no reflexive movements," Milton remarked aloud. He picked up a circular saw, frowned, and held it out in front of the Pacified's face. "Do you know what I am going to do with this?"

The Pacified stared blankly at the saw, then slowly shook its head.

"Do you remember me doing this to you before?"

It shook its head again.

"The subject does not recall the…therapy it was given prior to Pacification," Milton noted. Stepping back, he lowered the protective shield attached to the front of his helmet. He flipped the switch on the saw. As it roared to life, he glanced at the Pacified's other arm. He hesitated, the image of the stump digging into his memories, dragging up the sounds of the man's screams. Remembered bile rose up in his throat, and he reflexively turned the saw back off. He swallowed hard and lowered his gaze to the sterile, steel floor of his lab.

_It had to be done_, he reminded himself sternly. _I had to establish a pre-Pacification baseline. It's the only way to be sure._ Milton took a deep breath. _The Governor will want these results. You have to be __**sure**__._

Before he managed to mentally gird his loins for the procedure, a sharp knock rapped against the door to his lab. Startled, Milton set the saw aside and swept up the shield in front of his face. The door was opened cautiously, and the Governor peeked inside, one eyebrow raised. Apparently satisfied that blood wasn't flying haphazardly around the room, the Governor stepped confidently into the laboratory and shut the door. He gave Milton a gentle smile, his eyes hard and glinting.

"And how are things going down here?" he drawled. "Any updates you care to share?"

Milton swallowed hard, glancing nervously at the Pacified on the table. "My experiments are proceeding, sir. My previous trials strongly suggest that humans, once Pacified, are no longer capable of feeling pain."

The Governor hummed thoughtfully and stepped closer, gazing down his nose at the naked Pacified on the table.

"But you're not sure?" he replied, a dangerous thread in his voice. Milton fidgeted with the edge of his apron.

"Not yet, sir. The, ah, subject you're looking at will be my first pre- and post-Pacification comparison," he answered nervously. "After this, I should know more."

The Governor peeled his eyes off the Pacified and turned his head, giving Milton a sideways glance. "I should hope so," he returned easily. "I didn't appreciate having to Pacify more of my thinkin' staff just because they wandered down here two weeks ago while you were working." He smiled. "Although I suppose it's better than letting them suffer through nightmares, am I right?"

Milton flinched, catching the unspoken threat. "I ordered more soundproofing, sir. It won't happen again."

"Good." The Governor walked up to his assistant and placed a hand on his shoulder. Milton fought down an instinctive shudder. The Governor's voice deepened as he continued, "You know that this is for the greater good, right? What you're doing here…" He waved a hand at the lab table. "You're helping us forge a brighter future for this country. It's important."

Milton nodded, but he dropped his eyes. "Yes, sir. I understand." The floor gleamed beneath his feet. "I won't let you down."

"I know you won't," the Governor replied, voice lilting upwards once more. His fingers squeezed Milton's shoulder. "Speaking of letting me down, have you managed to locate our dear Mr. Dixon's brother?"

Milton's breath caught in his chest. A moment's research had been all that was necessary to discover that Lord Grimes' newest acquisition, unlike any of his other contractors, actually had family wandering around. Unfortunately, knowing that Merle Dixon existed and _finding_ Merle Dixon were two completely different issues. Milton cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Ah…not yet, sir. Mr. Dixon—I mean Merle, of course—has apparently gone to ground. None of my sources have been able to locate him." Milton balled up the edges of his apron in his fists, his palms suddenly clammy. "I'm sure that we'll be able to find him, but it may take some time."

Milton wasn't looking at the other man, but he could feel the Governor's gaze burning holes in his skull. The politician's fingers dug sharply into Milton's shoulder, eliciting a quick gasp that Milton couldn't stifle in time. When he lifted his gaze, eyes wide with fear, the Governor gave him an entirely fake, thoroughly terrifying smile.

"Well, I'm sure you'll do your best. I don't need our friend Rick to continue being a thorn in my side when the next State Session rolls around, now do I?" The Governor's smile remained fixed, but his eyes narrowed dangerously. "If there's any leverage I can pit against him, I'm damn sure going to use it, you understand me?"

Milton nodded hurriedly. "Yes, sir. I'll find him. I promise."

"Excellent." The Governor dropped his hand and stepped back, all aggression suddenly gone. "Then I'll let you get back to your work. I want you to be _absolutely certain_ that Pacified can't feel pain, you hear me?"

Milton's head bobbed. "Of course, sir."

"Good man." With a last look at the lab table, the Governor headed towards the door, opened it, and left the lab. The door closed behind him with a faint hiss.

Sighing heavily, Milton slid his hand underneath his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Gritting his teeth, Milton reached up, slammed the protective shield back down over his face, and picked up the circular saw. He flicked the power switch, his eyes grim.

Without hesitation, he lowered the saw onto the Pacified's wrist. Blood splattered his shield and apron, but the Pacified didn't flinch. It continued staring up at the ceiling.

On the monitor, its brain gave a weak blip for touch, and then nothing.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this one took so long. This chapter really fought me. -_- Hopefully, the next one doesn't give me as much trouble. I'm also looking for a new beta (my current one is way too busy these days to help me out), so if you're interested, feel free to pm me!


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